


UltraViolet

by Spinsomnia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle of Hogwarts, Blood and Torture, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Divergence, Dark Magic, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Dragon!Draco, Drarry, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humour, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, it's a bit of everything im ngl, shape shifting, sixth year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-04 12:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 172,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinsomnia/pseuds/Spinsomnia
Summary: **COMPLETE** UPDATES USUALLY FREQUENT BUT MAY BE ON HIATUS FOR OCCASIONAL EDITING OF LATER CHAPTERS"Something had happened. Something urgent. And it had to do with that Dragon and Draco Malfoy."It's sixth year and Draco Malfoy has a secret. No one believes Harry when he insists that he is up to something and a Dragon is stalking Hogwarts. When Malfoy goes missing, Harry makes a startling discovery that changes everything he thought he knew about his rival.





	1. The Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for starting this fic! I've added two chapters for week one, just to keep momentum going. I'd like to reiterate that this fic IS complete, and it spans all the way through the war, to post-war, to their early adult lives. I may take hiatus' sometimes purely for editing purposes while I'm finishing assignments at university etc. but this project means a lot to me. I'd had this idea for a long long time and desperately wanted to write it. I had some time in the summer to write it while I was recovering from surgery so that's exactly what I did! Like I say, I may need time for editing because although it's all complete, some of the later chapters may need a little TLC as I got very carried away and sort of wrote and wrote and wrote until my brain was just a pile of mush. Classic. But I do hope you enjoy it. Please take time to leave a comment/kudos if you feel compelled and let me know what you think! Looking forward to hearing from you :) - S

**Part I**

In hindsight, perhaps stamping on Potter’s face hadn’t been the smartest move given how he was meant to remain inconspicuous this year. 

“So much for inconspicuousness…” Draco muttered on his march back to the castle. He’d missed the carriages. No thanks to Potter. He curled his fingers around the smooth Jade pendant around his neck, breathing quickly. With any luck, his body-bind on Potter would hold until he was half-way back to London. But he also knew the conductor performed sweeping charms at the end of every journey, so he was bound to be discovered. Nonetheless, the brief release of irritation Draco had been holding onto since the day’s tedious interactions with his peers had been somewhat satisfying, if stupid.

He closed his eyes, wordlessly counting back from ten. _ Calm down _ , he thought hard. He knew himself well enough to determine he was _ not _at risk of suddenly having to bolt to the nearest hiding place and transform, but every outburst nudged him just a bit closer to the line. He couldn’t risk it. Especially not this year. He’d spent the summer practicing a cool, calm mask of indifference. He was well-versed in suppressing his feelings; had been since he was thirteen and the Curse had made its first unwelcome appearance into his life, but there was no such thing as over-preparation in his family. 

Hopefully now he could just go to his room and relax. Apparently the day from hell had other ideas. He was intercepted at the gate by Flitwitck and Snape. He’d always found the Charms Professor’s nature overzealous and wearisome but he could really do without it today. He just wanted to go to bed.

“An inspection?” He barked, injecting as much disdain as possible into his voice. “This is ridiculous.”

“It is a necessary precaution!” Flitwick squeaked, performing all manner of _ un _ necessary spells on Draco’s luggage. Snape gave him a look as if to say _ ‘keep yourself in check.’ _Great. He’d have this hook-nosed bat breathing down his neck all year as well. Flitwick’s wand swayed towards Draco himself, and he frowned.

“That”- he said, pointing at Draco’s neck, “What is that?”

  
“What does it look like?” Draco spat. “I’ve been wearing it to school for years so you can’t possibly have an issue with it now. It’s only suffused with protection charms. Surely you can tell that much.” It wasn’t a lie. 

The professor tutted at Draco’s tone, twirling his father’s old walking stick this way and that in his hands. 

Draco snatched it back. “It’s just a walking stick, you idiot!” 

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he turned sharply to be met with the sour, green-eyed gaze he thought he’d left body-bound on the train. Potter’s unlikely hero stood next to him, a pair of obtuse goggles perched on top of her blonde head. Loony Lovegood. Of course. Draco couldn’t believe he was distantly related to such an oddball. That kind of behaviour would never be tolerated in his house. 

He found with dismay he couldn’t even conjure the slightest amount of satisfaction at the sight of Potter’s broken nose, blood spattered onto his awful muggle grey clothing. It was simply a reminder of how he’d let his temper get the better of him. 

“Nice face, Potter.” He managed without a jot of emotion. After a final murderous glance at the two of them, Draco gave a single flick of his wand and levitated the rest of his luggage out of the professor’s keen grasp, following it with hasty steps up the dark path towards the illuminated castle ahead.

Unluckily for him, Snape caught up.

“Your decorum was foolish, Draco.” He said at length, “If you continue to behave in such a manner they will notice”-

-”They won’t notice shit.” Draco countered, “They’ll be too busy fawning over their Chosen One to notice me.” 

“Dumbledore will have other ideas.” Said Snape, raising his voice ever so slightly. “He will want to talk to you.”

“He can talk to me as much as he wants.” Draco laughed without humour, “It won’t make a difference.” 

“Draco, your mother”-

Draco stopped in the middle of the path. His ex-potions professor’s beetle-like eyes glittered in the darkness. 

“My mother expects you to follow me around like a dog. I know. And I don’t care. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late and I heard they’re serving lamb chops for the main course.”

Despite his words, he skipped dinner, opting instead for a hot shower. His peace was interrupted less than an hour later by the arrival of his roommates.

“What the fuck did you do to Potty’s face?” Theodore Nott launched straight in.

“Pleasant summer then, Nott?” Draco drawled, already exhausted. He’d mercifully managed to avoid his company on the train. It seemed he was going to make up for it.

Theo snorted. “Oh come off it, Draco. So, what? You’ve already started?”

“Started what?” Draco ground out, making a show of folding his clothes and putting them into their correct places in the open drawers and wardrobes. Usually he’d never bother to do any of this manually, but anything to avoid Theo’s childish energy. It never failed him at the start of the year. Usually Draco marvelled at it. This year he was just tired. 

Blaise flopped down onto his own bed. “I’m full of beef and rice pudding, Theo. Please shut up for two seconds.”

Draco shared his sentiments wholeheartedly. 

“I’m just saying!” Theo continued, “If we’re gonna go all in, we should go all in, you know? Bit miffed I wasn’t invited to the Potty face-smashing party to be honest. Who’s next? Please say it’s the Weasel.”

“It wasn’t prearranged, Theo.” Said Draco, hauling on his pyjamas. His limbs felt like lead. He placed a stock of vials filled with Sleeping Draught into his bedside drawer but he doubted he’d need one tonight. Even Theo’s constant jabbering was already starting to become background noise. As Theo came up with worryingly advanced plans to prank the Golden Trio, Draco noticed the two empty beds at the end of the room.

“Where are Crabbe and Goyle?” 

“Dunno. Anyway, so yeah like I was saying”-

-”They were called to Dumbledore’s office.” Said Blaise, his voice edged with knowing. Draco met his eyes, remembering Snape’s warning. 

“I see.” 

Blaise raised a brow. “Do you? Because you know you’re next.” 

Draco groaned and tucked himself into bed, turning away from his overly-perceptive roommate. 

“The old fuck doesn’t have anything to say to me I don’t already know.” He said. It was easier to pretend nonchalance when no one could see his face. He faked a yawn. “Besides, it’s not me he should be worried about. It’s this joke of a school. The security is absolute bollocks. They didn’t even find the Baneberry Potion I have stashed in my father’s cane.” These were his friends. It was okay to tell them, especially under the guise of boasting. Besides, a pinch of truth helped a lie go a long way. 

Theo stopped. “Why in the name of Merlin’s frilly knickers have you got Baneberry Potion?” 

Draco gave a long sigh. “You know what my parents are like. Constantly worried someone is after me. They forget the only people who give a shit what I do are morally constipated teachers and Potter and his band of idiots. I’ll be fine.” 

Even without looking, he could sense Blaise and Theo sharing a look. 

“You know,” Blaise began slowly in a voice that implied he was about to give Draco a lecture. It wouldn’t be the first time. “We didn’t hear from you all summer. Even Pansy was worried.”

“Really?” Said Draco, “She didn’t say anything on the train.” 

“She wouldn’t,” Theo laughed, “She fancies the pants off you.”

“Tell her she’s barking up the wrong tree.” 

“Maybe _ you _should tell her”-

-”That’s not the point.” Blaise cut in. “Everything alright, mate?”

Draco paused. These were his friends, yes, but even they didn’t know his deepest secret. His darkest secret. They might think they know. They might even have guessed the Dark Lord had given him a task to complete. But they could never know the real truth. No one could. His fingers found the Jade pendant under the sheets. 

“Shut up, Blaise.” He said.

“Would you just”-

Draco turned in his bed to fix them both with a hard look. “You’re actually pissing me off now. You’re starting to sound like a bloody Hufflepuff.” 

Blaise, as always, was unaffected by Draco’s insults. He gave him a look of equal measure, but he said nothing else.

“So if we’re done? I’d really appreciate some sleep.” With that, he spelled the bed curtains shut, enclosing himself in the cold comfort of darkness. He closed his eyes. 

Day one was over. 

Only one hundred and eighty-nine to go. One hundred and eighty-nine tedious days to complete his task. 

The Curse inside him roiled, and he pushed it down. _ We’ve made it this far_, he told it silently, _ don’t you dare fuck things up for me now_. But when had the beast ever been compliant? 

*

It was October. Harry scanned the Marauder’s map for the fifth time that night. By now, even Ron had noticed. Harry heard Ron mutter a spell and felt the silencing charms go up around them a second later. 

“Harry, who are you looking for?” Ron asked tiredly from his bed.

Harry resolved not to answer that question. It had become increasing habit over the last couple of months to track the whereabouts of none other than Draco Malfoy throughout the castle. Harry had started to notice (he couldn’t be sure _ when _ he’d noticed exactly) that Malfoy’s little footsteps frequently disappeared off the map entirely. This was not new. Harry had seen it happen before - ever since he’d got the map from the twins in fact - but back then it had been sporadic. Harry was thrown back into those days, often nights, where he’d lie awake wondering _ where on earth had Draco Malfoy got to? _Upon asking Hermione in fourth year, she’d proclaimed his father probably had special rights to see his son whenever he wished. Governors privilege, and all that. At the time, Harry had decided she was almost certainly right. Malfoy spent so much time bragging about his father that no doubt he had special permission to wander off from school and saunter off home whenever he pleased, but now the disappearances were so frequent that Harry was becoming doubtful that the reason for his absence was to make the odd moonlight flit to his Manor. Especially when most of the disappearances happened at night. Harry had concluded with complete conviction that Malfoy was a Death Eater. Ron and Hermione had been skeptical enough the first few times he’d said it. He didn’t have the energy to face it again now.

“No one.” Lied Harry, reluctantly shoving the map under his pillow. 

Ron huffed. “Could you turn out the light, then? I can’t sleep.”

“Close your curtains!”

“You know I hate sleeping with the curtains shut.” 

Harry couldn’t dispute that. He did too. The closeness of it reminded him too much of his cupboard. He shivered involuntarily at the thought.

“Alright.” 

On the nights where the moon shone bright enough to project beams across his bed, Harry made do with its meagre light, but the sky was dark tonight. And Draco Malfoy was missing. Again. He sighed. 

“Oi, mate?” Said Ron a moment later.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Harry laughed. “You just did.”

Ron’s pillow hit him in the face with force. “Hey! What was that for?” He threw it back and it landed on the floor pathetically. 

“Don’t be sarky, I’m serious!” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, go on then.”

Something about the way Ron paused made Harry’s stomach turn with nerves. 

“Do you… you know… like someone?”

Harry snorted. Okay. He hadn’t expected that one. 

“What?”

“It’s just, Hermione and me have noticed, you seem to be… a bit out of it. It’s not Cho Chang again is it, Harry? Because she’s a right one, her.”

Harry shook his head, laughing. “You’re balmy.”

Ron sat up in bed to face Harry, casting a _ Lumos_. “No, but really though.” He continued at full force, “At first we thought it was that bloody potions book and all the Half-Blood Prince business”-

-”Please stop telling me to get rid of it.”-

-”but I think it’s more than that. Well… Hermione does. I thought you might just have indigestion.” He grinned in the dark, the _ Lumos _illuminating his teeth. 

“She’s overthinking.” Said Harry. “You both are.” 

Ron fell back down onto the cushions, tracing shapes of light in the air with his wand. 

“Yeah, thought you might say that.” 

Harry frowned, humour gone. “But you believe me though, right?” 

Ron hesitated a second too long. “Yeah, mate.” He turned out his light.

A long silence passed between them in which both of them knew neither was sleeping. Harry’s thoughts had just begun to stray to Malfoy again when Ron suddenly said,

“It’s just, I thought it might be Ginny.” 

Harry blinked up at the dark ceiling, totally in shock. “_Ginny _?” Thank Godric for silencing charms. 

“Is it really that mad?” Said Ron, “Only you got all weird when you saw Dean with her last week.” 

Harry slapped a hand against his forehead. “Not because I fancy her!” 

“Why then?” Ron challenged. 

Despite the silencing charms Harry whispered, “Because Dean is... well... he's _gay,_ Ron.” 

Now it was Ron’s turn to be shocked. “You… what? Dean is _ gay _? Where did you get that from?”

It wasn’t obvious? Harry sat up straight. “One: he used to joke about it all the time. You know, all the kissing jokes in fourth year? Two: he has no trouble hugging girls but he’s really awkward around us for like, two years. Three: he was all over Seamus when we got drunk at the beginning of the year”-

-”Alright, alright! Christ… I didn’t notice at all.”

Harry found that strange. He thought everyone knew, but out of a mixture of respect and school-boy awkwardness they'd decided not to say anything. Which is why he’d been more than shocked to see he and Ginny together. 

“So, you really don’t like Ginny then?”

Harry sighed. “Of course I like her, Ron. Just... not like that. Besides, she’s your sister.”

Ron chuckled. “Yeah. But at least I know you’d be good to her. I kept thinking it would be great if you two got married because then we’d actually be brothers.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to marry your sister to treat you like a brother, Ron.” 

“Don’t get soppy or I’ll have to whack you with my pillow again.” 

They laughed.

“Blimey, what am I gonna tell, Gin? Sorry, sis, your boyfriend is gay. I mean…”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed with a long huff. “Must be hard on him too, though. If I’m right, obviously. I dunno. Maybe I’m seeing things.”

“Nah, now that you’ve said it I think you might be right.” Said Ron. “You are alright though, aren’t you Harry? I mean…” He hesitated again, and Harry heard him inhale shakily, “this summer can’t have been easy after Sirius…” Ron didn’t finish the sentence. Harry didn’t want him to.

A fresh stab of pain lanced through him and he fisted his hands in the sheets, curling into a ball. The hollow cave in his chest cried out and the flash of camera bulbs lit up behind his eyelids, as vivid as they were the night reporters had captured his grief and plastered it all over the papers. 

“I’m fine.” He said quietly, knowing he sounded anything but fine. “Night, Ron.”

“... Night, Harry.” The regret in Ron’s voice echoed long after they’d said goodnight to each other.

The issue of 12 Grimmauld Place loomed over Harry’s psyche like a thunder cloud. Sirius had left Harry absolutely everything. Even the Order hadn’t got a say in what they did with the place. Of course Harry said they could have it and use it at their leisure. But by next year, it would be time to leave Hogwarts, and Harry would need a place to live. That’s if he made it that far. 

The threat of the war was more real now than it had ever been before. Many didn’t return to Hogwarts this year, their parents choosing to keep their kids home. Hogwarts was a fortress, for Merlin’s sake. But maybe if his parents were still alive they’d want him to stay with them too… Maybe even Sirius would have-

No.

Sirius was gone. And Harry had a mystery to solve. 

He grit his teeth and closed his curtains, focusing instead on the map as he waited for Draco Malfoy’s label to appear by the light of his wand. He doubted he would sleep tonight.

*

It had been a busy night for Draco. The Vanishing Cabinet had proven to be a nasty piece of work, and he’d spent the past four hours just trying to figure out what was wrong with it. Draco was still in the diagnostic stage; casting varying degrees of analysis spells to determine just how many layers of fuckery he had to go through before he had any hope of solving whatever was broken. He’d seen its twin in Diagon Alley, and secretly cast a few wandering diagnostic charms on that one to determine what this one should look like after he was finished with it. He’d mistakenly thought this was the easy part. 

Draco’s grades had dropped drastically since September which had confused Blaise to no end because he spent almost all of his time reading. These books in particular were summoned directly from the library in the Manor, most of them illegal. He hadn’t dared to set foot in Hogwarts’ restricted section after the talk he’d been given by Dumbledore at the start of the year.

_ “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Draco?” _

_ Draco had scoffed without meaning to. Perhaps it was the use of his first name coupled with the irony that he was facing the man he’d been tasked to kill by the end of term. _

_ “Really, sir. I don’t know why you bothered to summon me up here.” _

_ Dumbledore surveyed him from over his half-moon glasses, bright blue eyes twinkling in the fire light of his warm office. _

_ “I will not insult you by feigning ignorance.” Said Dumbledore, “I am aware that your father was involved in the attack on the ministry last year and that he’s now carrying out his sentence in”- _

_ -”You don’t know anything about my father!” Draco had fired back, becoming heated. He’d closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to calm down as the Curse prickled the back of his throat, threatening to turn his shouts into growls. He resisted the urge to touch his pendant, as he so often did when he felt like this. _

_ “We can help each other, Draco.” The Headmaster told him. The softness of his voice and the bony hand he laid on Draco’s shoulder, its fingers mysteriously blackened, only served to irritate Draco further. He shoved him off. _

_ “You can’t help me.” He said quickly. Too quickly. “There’s nothing to help me with.” _

_ Dumbledore’s bird, the Phoenix, swooped from his perch and came to rest on Dumbledore’s desk. It fixed Draco with a beady glare. Draco felt scrutinized by the fantastic creature. It was magical after all, and he was scared the bird could see something inside Draco no one else could. He knew animals sensed it. They often instinctively fled from Draco on sight - or attacked. He thought bitterly of his run in with the Hippogriff in third year. He’d thought he was in for it, but thankfully the attack was blamed on Draco’s arrogance rather than the Curse. His parents had known better and reprimanded him to no end. Now, Draco looked into the wizened old features of his target. His _ enemy _ . Little do you know, he thought, I could transform right now and - _

_ “Sometimes, Draco, we are given a choice and we are made to think there is no escape from it. Or perhaps made to believe there is only one way out.” _

_ Draco grit his teeth. _

_ “There is never one ultimatum. Do you understand?” _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ Once he left the office, Draco had allowed himself to cry for the first time since coming back to Hogwarts. _

He realized then had to keep his wits about him. He wasn’t stupid enough to think Dumbledore didn’t already suspect him, and if he began rooting around the restricted section he was bound to be found out. 

But tonight his concerns were not with the Vanishing Cabinet. No, tonight he had a date with Madam Rosmerta. Not that she knew it. 

Usually Draco had no problem slipping past the wards without detection. He’d done it hundreds of times before. But he noticed this time they were a little..._ tighter _. It had taken him weeks to plan this endeavour. He’d been hoping to win the Felix Felicis in Slughorn’s moronic first class but somehow Potter had managed to filch the opportunity from him. He’d been livid. 

But no matter, his skills alone could get him through this. So far so good. The wards were tricky, but he’d practiced with far worse in his own home. 

It was a freezing November night, and Draco wrapped his thick woolen coat around himself. Time to cast a Glamour. 

He made himself look older - not by much, just enough to get away with being in a pub an hour before midnight - and gave himself black hair. He tried not to over analyse his decision as he was momentarily reminded of Potter, so he shook himself free of the thought and made his way to The Three Broomsticks. 

Despite his avid preparation, adrenaline spurned through Draco’s veins as he entered the pub, a light hubbub ringing in his ears and the scent of cinnamon invading his senses. It smelled delicious and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he forced his attention to the woman behind the bar. It was with a chill that he recognised Minerva McGonagall sitting at the bar in animated conversation with the barmaid herself. Draco cursed under his breath and shrunk to a dark corner of the pub where he sat, nursing a flask of Pumpkin Juice, until McGonagall left almost half an hour later. His heart threatened to beat out of his ribcage as they made eye contact for a split second. She gave him a slight nod in greeting. He returned it, unable to believe his luck. 

Taking his time, Draco sauntered up to the bar.

“What can I do for ya?” Madam Rosmerta asked easily.

“Firewhisky.” Draco grunted, keeping his eyes locked on the bar-top. As Rosmerta summoned the bottle it occurred to him that he’d only ever drank Firewhiskey once. He tried to make it look convincing as he knocked back the neat liquor, and tried not to wince as it burned tracks down his throat. 

On the bright side, his voice sounded considerably gruffer now and the lightheadedness that came with intoxication granted him the confidence to poke his wand from his sleeve and cast an _ Imperio _ on Rosmerta. Her eyes went blank instantly and she swayed on the spot. From his other sleeve, Draco slid free a vial of Baneberry potion.

“You will take a bottle of mead and this vial, and you will pour its contents inside.” He murmured low so only she could hear. “The next time you see Professor Horace Slughorn you will give him the mead and tell him it will make a fine gift for Professor Dumbledore. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand.”  
Like the puppet she’d become, Rosmerta nodded obediently and took the vial from Draco. Blank-eyed, she hobbled to the back of the bar, picked out a fresh bottle of oak matured mead, uncorked the vial and tipped its contents inside. Then she wrapped it in brown paper and set it aside, marking it with a label that read: _ For H. Slughorn. _

Before lifting the Unforgivable Curse, Draco ducked his head and strode out of the pub, wordlessly breaking the spell as numbingly cold air surrounded him, blown by a harsh wind. 

He’d done it…

Now wasn’t the time to get cocky. There was a huge chance this might not work. But he had an insurance plan, the contents of which were waiting at the Manor, to be sent by owl and wrapped up extensively. He only hoped this method would work first. It was almost painless as poisons went.

Almost.

Draco braced himself against the vile winds, vaguely wondering why he cared. The method was irrelevant. As long as Dumbledore was dead by the end of the year… as long as… 

His sobs were lost in the howls of wind and the first spits of rain. It was just as well, because he couldn’t stop them. He looked towards the forest, its dark branches beckoning him in. It would be so easy to let go, to release the imprisoned energy he’d been holding onto since the beginning of term, but he couldn’t. He’d had a sleepless three nights in preparation for this one. He had to make it to bed tonight, or he’d end up missing lessons tomorrow. And if he did that, someone would suspect him. And if they suspected him, it would be harder to do this. Even harder than it already was. 

Blaise, Theo, Gregory and Vincent were playing a game of exploding snap in the dorm room when Draco finally made it indoors. He’d had the sense to cast a warming charm over himself and remove the Glamour, so he hoped there wouldn’t be too many questions. Even so he couldn’t help himself from asking as he hung his coat up, frowning:

“What are you doing? It’s almost one in the morning and we have Potions first thing tomorrow.” 

A silence followed his question. They’d been doing that a lot lately. Not so much Gregory and Vincent - they were usually quiet due to the lack of words their addled brains provided - but Blaise and Theo were giving him very odd looks indeed. 

“It’s Vinnie’s birthday.” Said Theo, not bothering to hide his disdain. “We were celebrating. We waited for you earlier but we decided not to bother in the end.” 

Draco gave Vincent a nod. “Oh, right. Happy birthday.”

Hardly in the mood for their childish snubbing, Draco locked himself in the bathroom and stripped down. He felt dirty, covered in a layer of invisible grime. He washed himself for what felt like hours, using copious amounts of soap and cleansing potions until his skin was prickly and raw. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging up the mirror. Good, Draco thought. He didn’t want to see his own face. His reflection was haunting him of late, the dark circles becoming more prominent each day, his pallor waning to match his shock of white-blond hair. Draco rubbed his left arm. Even though the skin there was blank, he knew it would not be for long. Soon he would be branded with the same tattoo his father carried. It would make no difference. He was already bound by the same rules; stricter rules in fact than any other Death Eater. It wasn’t fair. If he failed, his family would die. _ He _would die. He hadn’t seen any other Death Eaters attempt to assassinate Albus Dumbledore, so why was this his task? He wasn’t even seventeen yet.

He could think of no other reason the Dark Lord would have for doing this other than his own amusement. The dark wizard’s amused lipless smirk was often the subject of Draco’s nightmares. 

_ “You will do me well, Draco. You will do better than your father.” _

Draco knew the strain he was on his family; how they feared his secret would come out. If the Dark Lord knew what Draco was and what he could do…

The Curse seemed to relish the idea, roiling deep in Draco’s gut with vigour. Would the Dark Lord let it free? Draco sucked in a breath, trying to banish the thoughts. They were the result of sleep deprived paranoia, he knew, brought on by the stress of what he’d done today. But this was just the start. 

He wiped a section of the mirror clean, just enough so he could stare at the Jade pendant hanging around his neck. It was unassuming; a pretty stone cut into the shape of a small rod. But it was his barrier. His protector. The only thing keeping the Curse from overtaking him completely. He brought it to his lips and sighed.

“No one will know. No one will ever find out. I promise, mother.” 

And he had promised. From the day he turned thirteen to the day he’d left his mother on the platform at King’s Cross amidst the snide remarks and camera flashes of _ The Prophet’s _shameless journalists, he promised his secret would be upheld. Especially from the Dark Lord. 

Not long now and he could go home to their secret room and let the Curse free for one night, as he had done every two months for the past three and a half years. It was the only place his secret was truly safe. 

*

Quidditch practice was no fun when all your Keeper could talk about was his new girlfriend.

“I’m not saying _ everyone _should have this experience, Harry,” Ron was saying as they walked off the pitch, red-faced and spattered with mud, “but I’ve learnt some really valuable stuff from Lavender.” 

“Like what? The compatibility of a Leo and a Gemini?”

Ron blinked. “Alright, look. I know her obsession with astrology is a bit”-

-”Annoying? Cliche?” 

Ron huffed. “Well… okay. But that’s not all we talk about!”

“I’ll be honest, I haven’t seen you do much talking.” Said Harry. 

Ginny snorted. “I’m surprised you still have the ability to talk, Ron. I thought that girl would’ve stolen your voice, she’s had her tongue down there so much.”

She and Harry laughed and Ron pouted. 

“Says you.” Ron fired back. “You and Dean aren’t exactly strangers to snogging, Gin.” 

Ginny’s face darkened. “Yeah, well… I don’t want to talk about Dean right now.” 

She pushed past them into the girl’s changing room. Harry and Ron shared a look. 

“Alright, maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” Said Ron before Harry could.

“You think?” Harry pulled out the map, instinctively searching for a name. He found it heading towards the Owlery. 

“Mate…” Said Ron in a low voice. 

“Hm?” 

It was almost six o’clock. Nearly time for dinner. The Owlery was empty at this hour. There must be a reason Malfoy had chosen to go up there now. The name vanished from his sight as the map was yanked from his hands.

“You haven’t even showered yet!” Said Ron. 

Harry reached for the map but Ron held it high above his head. It wasn’t fair that his best friend was so much taller than him. 

“Give that back!”

“I’m confiscating this until after dinner.” He told him, sounding uncannily like Mrs. Weasley. “Hermione will shout at you if she sees you staring at this thing again. It’s not normal, Harry.” 

Harry grit his teeth. “Fine.” He knew where he had to go. “I’ll meet you for pudding.” 

He stormed out of the changing rooms without showering. He had no time to lose. The march up to the Owlery was grim. Winter was closing in fast and the rain turned to sleet. Harry wiped a stripe of mud across his face as he attempted to dry it. He shucked off his Quidditch gloves, shoving them in his pocket. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was panting and clutching a stitch in his side. 

Malfoy didn’t see him right away. He was stood in front of the window, dimly lit by torches lining the walls. Harry’s first thought was how thin Malfoy looked. His clothes hung off him loosely and his long-fingered hands were gaunt around the parcel they were holding. He appeared to be shaking. Whether from cold or emotion, Harry could not tell. Harry made to hide himself, but his shifting feet against the stone floor caused Malfoy to turn sharply. Unguarded shock clouded Malfoy’s eyes, and Harry was struck by vulnerable he looked before his features arranged into an expression of pure venom.

Harry scowled back by default. “What are you up to, Malfoy?” 

Malfoy sneered “Up to? My, the death of your good for nothing godfather really has got you paranoid, hasn’t it? Oh, yes. I know all about him. Well, he isn’t here to save you now. I thought I taught you a lesson on the train, but I can see it’ll take more than that.”

Harry’s blood turned hot. He saw red. He reached for his wand before he knew what he was doing.

“Talk about Sirius like that again and I’ll burn your tongue out.” He snarled, advancing. 

Malfoy gripped the parcel tighter, the letter in his other hand fluttering by the draft. 

“Sod off, Potter. I’m sure someone is in dire need of saving. Perhaps you should go to them instead of following me around like a fucking shadow.”

Harry gripped his wand tighter, refusing to believe Malfoy had actually found him out. He’d been careful. Or so he thought. Was Malfoy more perceptive than he realized? Moody’s (Or rather Barty Crouch Jr’s) mantra rang in his ears: “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

Well, he hadn’t been the only one in that classroom. Malfoy must have learnt a thing or two from his fellow Death Eater after all. He chanced a risk at Malfoy’s arm which was, of course, covered by a sleeve. 

“Oh, please!” Malfoy exclaimed, noticing the action, “You don’t _ actually _ believe I’m a - Merlin’s beard, you _ do! _”

Malfoy laughed, his voice echoing around the tower. It was an awful sound; full of malice and scorn. 

“Have you told your minions your theory, Potter? Where are they now? The Mudblood and the Weasel?” 

Harry remained silent, refusing to rise to the bait. 

Realization dawned on Malfoy’s face, his deductions impressively quick.

“Ah… they don’t believe you, do they?”

It must have shown in Harry’s reaction, because Malfoy barked another horrible laugh, his pale pointed face twisting into something hollow and empty.

“How sad.” 

“The only thing that’s sad is how pathetic your lies are, Malfoy. What’s in there?” He pointed at the package with his wand. 

Draco leant against the wall casually, “Just a trinket. A gift from my mother.” He smirked, “You couldn’t possibly afford it.” 

Malfoy’s derision scorched through Harry like a spell in itself, rattling him with seething rage. His wand hand shook with it. 

“You don’t get it, do you? I don’t hate you because you’re rich, you stupid stuck up bastard. I don’t even hate you because you’re a Slytherin. I hate you because of what you’re doing. What you’re _ letting happen _!” 

Malfoy’s jaw clenched tight. 

“Even if you’re not a Death Eater - which I don’t believe for a second by the way - your father is. Your family is _ hurting _people, Malfoy, and every day you stand by and watch it happen, you’re letting innocent people die!” Harry couldn’t stop it. The words poured from him; from the hollow space in his chest where Sirius had made his home three years ago only to be cruelly snatched away, and by this boy’s aunt nonetheless. Harry despised him for it. 

A second passed. Two. An Eagle owl screeched its protest at Harry’s yelling. Malfoy raised a single, platinum brow. 

“How eloquent of you, Potter.” He drawled. Something behind his eyes was different. Harry saw it, a flame flickering behind the glacial grey pools that now bored into him with spite. “I’ll make sure to pass that on to my father. In _ Azkaban _.”

He made to leave, leaving a cold breeze in his wake. 

“Tell your mother too.” Harry muttered, “No doubt she’s one as well.” 

Before Harry could process what was happening, he was being slammed against the hard stone doorframe. His head made contact with a sharp crack and he saw stars. 

“Don’t you say a damn thing about my mother, Potter.” Malfoy hissed in his face, jamming his hand against Harry’s throat. 

Still recovering from the blow to his head, all Harry could do was glare up at his assailant. He’d been waiting for a moment to get this close. And do… what? Apprehend him? Drag him to Dumbledore’s office tied up and bound and declare him guilty? He hadn’t thought that far ahead, and now he might never get to. Malfoy could actually kill him. 

“Or what?” He challenged. He was _ asking _for trouble and he knew it. But something kept pushing him further. 

Malfoy looked even worse up close. The sharp angles of his face were kept rigid in a constant frown. His eyes were manic, surrounded by hollow sockets that suggested a severe lack of sleep. If he was someone else, Harry might have felt sorry for him. Maybe a tiny part of him did. 

“You don’t understand.” Malfoy continued. “She’s not”-

He stopped, his face turning to a picture of confusion, seemingly by his own words. 

“She’s not what?” Harry choked out. “One of you?” 

Malfoy released him harshly. Harry doubled over, breathing hard and rubbing the back of his head. No blood. Small mercies were aplenty. 

“You know fuck all about me, Potter. Stay away from me. I mean it.” 

Malfoy was gone before Harry had the chance to hex him. He should have done it earlier. With a frustrated grunt he marched into the Owlery, plucked some parchment from his bag and a slightly bent quill, and began writing.

_ Remus, _

_ I think you’re the only person I can trust with this. I think you’ll understand. Please promise to hear me out. _

_ Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater. _

_ He all but confessed it to me just now. I think he means to hurt someone, or maybe all of us. I don’t know what to do. Ron and Hermione don’t believe me. He keeps disappearing at odd hours and his father is in Azkaban! It makes sense! Anyway, I could really do with some help. Please. _

_ Harry _

It was quick. Crude. Blotched with mud. But it would do. Harry grabbed the nearest owl with some force, earning him a sharp nip on the finger, and tied the rolled up parchment to its leg. 

“Make sure he gets it.” He told the tawny owl, who gave him a steely stare that suggested something like: _ Of course I will. Why do you think I’m here you rude arsehole? _And then Harry had to blink because he’d just had an imaginary conversation with an owl. Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought. 

Harry sprinted back to the Gryffindor common room, took a speedy shower and ran back to the Great Hall. He was in time for pudding as it turned out. 

Ron turned to him, face full of Eton Mess, looking sheepish. Hermione scowled. 

“Where were you?” She demanded the second he sat down.

“Owlery.” Said Harry easily, helping himself to a large helping of dessert. “I found Draco Malfoy there.”  
Hermione stared at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it. You’re stalking him. Oh, Harry”-

-”He’s a Death Eater, Hermione.” Said Harry, shrugging. He’d said it so many times it was almost second nature. 

“I tried ‘o ‘ell ‘im.” Ron said through a full mouth. Hermione grimaced. 

“Swallow your food, Ron. Seriously, Harry. You have to drop this. You have to think about your NEWTs! Not to mention keeping yourself safe from”-

-”Death Eaters. Yes.” Harry finished for her. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

As if on cue, he met Malfoy’s gaze across the Hall. Harry stared back, unflinching. The back of his head still throbbed and he channeled his unspent rage into his glare, into the things he would have said if Malfoy hadn’t run off like a coward. Usually it was something of a contest: _ who could stare the longest _ ? But tonight, Malfoy was the first to relent. He cast his eyes downward back at the table while his friends laughed amongst themselves. Malfoy sat apart from them. He had been doing so for some weeks, Harry had noticed, but he was only now beginning to _ see _it. To understand what it meant. 

Malfoy’s mission was his, and his alone. 

“Harry, are you listening?” Hermione said in a pleading tone. 

Harry met her eyes. He softened. “You don’t need to worry about me, Hermione. If you would just listen.”

“We _ are _listening. And it…” She glanced at Ron for support.

“It sounds like a cry for help, mate.”

Mortally offended, Harry gaped at them. “A _ cry for help _?” He echoed, unable to believe his ears.

Hermione’s eyes glistened. 

“Bloody hell, don’t _ cry _.” Harry said. He gave a disbelieving laugh. “You’re off your rockers, the pair of you.”

Hermione took his hand, and he hated the pity in her voice. “Harry, we know it’s been hard. We know.”

“Stop…”  
“Sirius loved you, and he wouldn’t want”-

-”Stop!” Harry shouted, catching the attention of the whole of Gryffindor table. Probably the whole room. He didn’t care to look up and find out.

“We’re trying to help you!” Said Ron.

“Then help me!” Harry cried as he stood, chest heaving with emotion. “Help me.” He said again, smaller. He sounded like a child. 

Tears tracked down Hermione’s face, her eyes filled with concern. Harry couldn’t bear it. He turned away and marched right back out the way he’d come, throat constricted with the need to shout - scream - _ anything. _ No one would fucking _ listen _. 

He only had to search for a minute before he found the map in Ron’s drawers. He took it and found himself in the library ten minutes later. No one was going to look for him here. He rarely went to the library unless it was with Hermione so he was confident he wouldn’t be found. Trying to quell the emotions raging inside of him at the mention of Sirius, Harry tried to concentrate on Malfoy’s name, penned in sentient calligraphy against the aged parchment. 

Why was everyone using Sirius against him today? He knew Hermione hadn’t meant to do it the way Malfoy had, but it stung. He knew Sirius would be on his side about this, which is why he’d written to Remus first. Remus would understand, just like Sirius would. Right?

Harry’s thoughts eventually calmed as he watched the map, and he perked up again once he saw Malfoy making a move. First, he went to the Slytherin common room. Boring. After an hour or so of the marker sitting still, Harry was about to give up and slope back to the Gryffindor common room where he’d no doubt apologise for his outburst and join Ron for a game of chess - as was their usual routine - but then Malfoy began to walk again. The tiny black footsteps travelled from the dungeons, up and up until he reached the passageway behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy on the fifth floor, one Harry himself was all too familiar with. It led to the Forbidden Forest. Why Malfoy wanted to go there, Harry had no idea. It was sure to be something Death Eater related. 

Harry didn’t even hesitate as he gathered his things and made for the library exit. That was until he heard the hushed, but passionate tail-end of an argument from behind a bookcase.

“...don’t understand why you don’t want to spend time with me anymore! You keep using NEWTs as an excuse but I hardly see you studying.”

“That’s the point, Ginny. I study on my own so you’ll hardly see it, will you?” 

“You spend more time with your friends than you ever have with me.”

“So, what? This is my fault?”

“I don’t know! Fuck knows, alright? I have no fucking idea what’s going on with you.”

Harry grimaced. If Dean wasn’t careful he’d be on the other side of one of Ginny’s famous Bat-Bogey Hexes. 

The argument ended with Dean storming out. Harry lingered where he was for a second. If he passed Ginny too soon, she’d think he’d been eavesdropping. Which he had been, but that wasn’t the point. 

Ginny’s quiet sniffles sounded moments later. Fuck. Was she _ crying _? Despite his misgivings, Harry didn’t like to hear her hurt. 

He stepped out from where he was standing (hiding). Ginny looked up, red-eyed, but she didn’t seem surprised.

“Christ, Harry. Did you hear all that?” She croaked.

“Err… not all of it?” He tried.

Ginny laughed a little before burying her head in her hands and letting out a sob that had Harry worrying Madam Pince may appear at any second to banish them. 

Harry wrapped his arms around her, and awkwardly remembered what Ron had said about him _ liking _her. The thought made him uneasy. She was like his sister. 

“I swear I’m gonna launch Dean into the lake if he pulls any of his shit again.” She muttered furiously against Harry’s shoulder. “He’d do well with the Giant Squid. Godric knows he kisses like one.”

Harry laughed. “And you’ve kissed the Giant Squid, have you?” 

“No, but sometimes I think it would understand me better than _ he _does.” She sighed and pulled away from him, wiping her nose. “Sorry for snotting on your shirt. That was disgusting.” 

Harry shrugged. “S’alright. It’s already green from the grass stains I can’t _ Scourgify _clean so it won’t make much of a difference.”

“Ugh.” Said Ginny, but she laughed, so it was alright. “Walk with me to the common room, will you?”

Harry squirmed. Draco Malfoy was going to the Forbidden Forest. But Ginny was upset. But Malfoy was up to something. Her face fell.

“Unless… you’re busy.”

“No, no!” Said Harry quickly, already wishing he’d said yes. Nonetheless, he accompanied Ginny out of the library and tried to shove all thoughts of Draco-Sodding-Malfoy out of his head. There was time yet to catch him. It wasn’t even Christmas. It was okay. 

It was okay.

*

_ Dearest Draco, _

_ Inside the parcel is the gift you asked for. Do not under any circumstances open it. It is ready to be sent as it is. _

_ I’ve also enclosed some chocolates. I’m sure your last supply must have run out by now. _

_ I am afraid I have some very bad news. This is the last I will be able to say on the matter because soon they will be intercepting my letters, but I’m afraid you cannot come home this month to use the Sky Room. They’re coming here. The Manor is becoming a temporary base and by the time this letter reaches you it will not be safe for you to come here and be yourself. I am so so sorry my darling. You must find a place at Hogwarts, somewhere not too far from the castle where the wards can still protect you. I know you think you are strong, but you must not let anyone see you. I will try and get rid of them as soon as I can. Hopefully they will decide our house is not suitable ground for a base when they discover the Bogarts I have placed in every bedroom, but I cannot vouch for its safety for now. _

_ Remember what we talked about before you left. Please reply soon and tell me how you are. Stay safe sweetheart and trust Severus when you are in the castle. He will protect you. _

_ My love always, _

_ Mother _

Draco threw the letter into the fire, quashing the well of anger and fear that rose inside him again. He was fucked. Well and truly fucked. The only place he’d ever been able to safely transform was the Sky Room at the Manor. If he transformed here, all manner of things could go wrong. But he _ had _to, otherwise the Curse would take matters into its own hands and transform him against his will. It needed an outlet; a brief period of time to… be free. The Sky Room had been the only place he could do it without fear of being caught, but now it was being taken over by the Dark Lord’s brainless grunts. 

Draco kicked his chair and swore. A couple of first years huddled over their Astronomy homework at the other end of the Common Room watched him anxiously. He glared at them until they scarpered off to their dorms. 

He was half-tempted to write back and insist his mother accommodate him; just for one night, however he knew it was too dangerous. She was right. The slightest hint of Draco’s Curse would send the Dark Lord on his back right away. He’d become nothing more than a slave to the cause. A weapon. It was his worst fear. 

And then there had been his moment of weakness with Potter earlier. Truly pathetic. His father would be disappointed if he’d seen how easily he’d crumpled. Draco pushed his head into his hands, carding his hands through his hair.

He had to think of something. A place he could go. There was always the Room of Requirement. He’d been going there for some time and it never failed to show him what he needed. Surely it could create a space big enough for his… purposes. But could Dumbledore detect _ all _magic that occured within the castle? Draco didn’t know, and he didn’t want to risk it. The Vanishing Cabinet was small-scale detailed work, easily lost in the plethora of spells constantly being cast at Hogwarts. But the outburst released at his moment of transformation could cause an alarm system to go off, and that was the last fucking thing he needed. 

The Shrieking Shack was too small. He was bound to cause a commotion, or worse he’d stumble in on some superstitious second years trying to perform a seance. It had been known to happen. 

There was only one place for it.

The Forbidden Forest. 

Draco hated the prospect of going in there, maybe even more than he hated the prospect of another inevitable confrontation with Potter. Hopefully next time Potter wouldn’t be mud caked and sopping with rain (though the water did make a significant improvement to the rat’s nest on his head, Draco hadn’t failed to notice). 

Resigning to what was sure to be a long and dread filled night, Draco packed a small bag filled with the basics: some crackers he’d nicked from dinner, the parcel (he didn’t plan on going anywhere without it until it was time to use it), a fresh shirt, a pair of trousers and his wand, which he kept in his pocket. 

He slipped out of the common room and made his way up to the fifth floor which was, mercifully, deserted. Draco entered the tunnel behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, casting a _ Lumos _for the way. 

The forest was freezing. Small crystals of ice formed on the tips of leaves and the ground crunched underfoot. He was only wearing a shirt, so the chill dug deep down to his bones. He consoled himself with the fact he wouldn’t feel it soon. 

A fine mist blanketed the forest floor, concealing the creatures that made all manner of sounds amidst the leaves. Thick tree trunks surrounded him like towers. Draco would never forget his first time in this forest. The night he and Potter had run into that… _ thing _. The sight of the dead Unicorn on the ground, silver blood pooled around its magnificent mane, had traumatised Draco. He hadn’t slept properly for months afterwards. Draco had no doubts that it had been just a typical night to Potter. It was probably a small fry to him now, if he hadn’t forgotten about it entirely. 

Draco allowed the anger to consume him, unbuttoning his shirt as he trod through the undergrowth, deeper and deeper into the gloomy depths of his cursed surroundings. But he, Draco, was the most cursed creature of all who occupied the forest tonight. 

He found a clearing. It was like a dish, scooped out in the middle of the forest and bathed in starlight. It was a clear night, thank Merlin, and with a jolt Draco realized this would be his first time flying outside. Draco touched the pendant on his neck.

“Keep me safe.” He breathed before he gazed up at the stars and allowed his breath to grow hot in his throat. His skin prickled like pins and needles, changing texture as Draco allowed the Curse to spread from where he usually kept it locked up tight in his core. It shot through his veins and turned his bones to ice, enclosing him in a new kind of flesh. Draco closed his eyes, knowing soon he’d be able to look with new ones.

It wasn’t painful. It never was. But it was strange, expanding in a way that seemed to go on and on and on until his fingers curled into claws and his jaw broke open into something far larger. His shoulder blades grew from his back, spreading wide into leathery wings and his tail snaked free of his vertebrae, revelling in the space it had to stretch. There were no walls out here, no ceiling to restrict his body, and he found himself growing larger than ever. When he breathed, it was to suck in gallons of oxygen, sparking his body with energy. Draco opened his eyes. His Dragon’s eyes. And he saw the stars.


	2. Aeterna Somnum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for starting this fic! I've added two chapters for week one, just to keep momentum going. I'd like to reiterate that this fic IS complete, and it spans all the way through the war, to post-war, to their early adult lives. I may take hiatus' sometimes purely for editing purposes while I'm finishing assignments at university etc. but this project means a lot to me. I'd had this idea for a long long time and desperately wanted to write it. I had some time in the summer to write it while I was recovering from surgery so that's exactly what I did! Like I say, I may need time for editing because although it's all complete, some of the later chapters may need a little TLC as I got very carried away and sort of wrote and wrote and wrote until my brain was just a pile of mush. Classic. But I do hope you enjoy it. Please take time to leave a comment/kudos if you feel compelled and let me know what you think! Looking forward to hearing from you :) - S

Harry watched Hermione stab her toast with her fork and stuff it into her mouth, her dark eyes full of rage.

“What did it do to you?” Asked Harry.

Hermione met his eyes across the table. “What are you talking about, Harry?”

“The toast really taste that bad? I don’t think that’s its fault.” 

Hermione sighed, her mouth pulling up into a ghost of a smile at Harry’s sad attempt at humour. 

“Sorry.” She said, “I’m just tired.” 

It was all too clear where the real source of her irritation was coming from, and currently he had his arm wrapped around Lavender Brown’s waist. 

“Do they have to do that at breakfast?” Hermione seethed.

“Don’t look.” Harry warned, “Seriously, it isn’t worth getting upset over.” He realized how awful it sounded the moment the words left his mouth. “I mean, I know why you’re upset”-

Hermione just shook her head. “Don’t worry, Harry. I know what you meant.” She frowned, distracted by the huddle of students gathered around the furthest end of the Hufflepuff table. “What’s got them so energetic at this time of the morning?” 

Even Ron and Lavender had been momentarily distracted from their loved-up exchange. Harry and Hermione caught up with them on the way to the Hufflepuff table no sooner than they heard Zacharias Smith’s loud voice over the commotion.

“It’s true!” He was saying to any and all who would listen. “I saw it, I did!” 

Seamus was shaking his head. “You’re full of shit, Smith.” 

Zacharias’ pinched face turned sour. “You wish you’d seen it, Finnigan. Don’t be jealous.” 

“Seen what?” Asked Harry, all heads turning to face him. 

Zacharias’ eyes lit up at the attention from the Chosen One himself. He was still trying to win back Harry’s favour after pissing him off at the DA last year. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“A Dragon! There’s a Dragon at Hogwarts.” More gasps followed his statement as half of Ravenclaw house joined in. 

Hermione exhaled. “Oh, for goodness sake. Come on, Harry.” She began to tug his arm but Harry resisted. 

“A Dragon?” He prompted. “Where? When?”

Zacharias licked his lips. “I was out on the pitch last night getting some solid practice in, yeah? And”-

-”Right, because you can’t hang on to a Quaffle to save your life.” Said Dean. Everyone tittered. Zacharias ignored him with noticeable effort.

“I was just flying, you know, and then I saw a flash over the forest.”

“The Forbidden Forest?” Harry asked. 

Zacharias nodded vehemently. “It was… gliding. Over the trees. And it was white… no, blue maybe? I don’t know, it was hard to tell in the dark but I definitely saw it.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a fat seagull?” Ron remarked. Lavender shrieked a laugh as though this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard and Hermione made a great show of putting her fingers in her ears. 

Zacharias scowled. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you lot. You can’t take anything seriously, can you?” 

Opinions flew between students, and soon they gathered the attention of the teachers.

“Mr Smith,” Said Professor McGonagall, appearing out of nowhere, her lips a stern thin line. “Would you mind enlightening me to the reason for this gathering you’ve acquired?” 

“Smith saw a Dragon, Professor!” Seamus supplied, grinning. Dean clapped him on the shoulder and the pair guffawed. 

“I did.” Said Zacharias, puffing out his chest.

McGonagall inhaled deeply. “I’m sure if there was a Dragon on the premises, Mr Smith, we would be well aware. Now I advise you to get back to your breakfast and back to”- she peered over his shoulder - “your Transfiguration homework which was, I believe, due yesterday morning.”

Zacharias blushed hotly and stared at his shoes. “Yes, Professor.” He mumbled. 

Everyone disbanded the Hufflepuff table with disgruntled murmurs. Harry retreated with Hermione, lost in thought.

“Honestly,” She was saying. “Some students will say anything for attention, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised it’s Smith. He was a horror last year - are you alright, Harry?” 

“Yeah, no I’m fine.” Said Harry, “It’s just weird isn’t it? I mean, why make up a Dragon? You’d think he could come up with something a bit more… realistic.” 

Hermione regarded him. “You don’t believe him do you, Harry? This is Zacharias Smith we’re talking about.” 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. I know what it’s like to know something and not have anyone believe me.” 

His accusation hung between them like an invisible wall. Hermione stiffened. 

“You know we’re trying to keep an open mind. It just seems too unlikely. I wish you would stop holding it against us.” 

Harry said nothing and finished his scrambled eggs. He sensed a pair of eyes on him, knowing exactly who they belonged to a second before he glanced upward to meet them. How very unlike Malfoy it was to avoid his gaze, Harry thought as the Slytherin boy reverted his gaze back to the table. His plate of food was untouched and he was paler than ever. _Eat something_ _you stupid bastard!_ Harry thought furiously. He had a terrific urge to march over and force feed Draco Malfoy his own scrambled eggs. It was annoying him, all this moping around. As far as he was concerned, Malfoy had no right to mope. 

_ His father is in prison _, a small voice at the back of his mind reminded him. But rightfully so. Lucius Malfoy could rot there as far as Harry was concerned. Him and the rest. A little tawny owl swooped over Harry’s breakfast, dropping a rolled up letter into his lap. Hermione watched him unravel it curiously. Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Remus’ handwriting.

_ Harry, _

_ I don’t think an explanation will suffice in a letter. We’ll talk tonight at one in your common room. I’ll be waiting, _

_ Remus _

Harry’s heart thudded. He grinned up at Hermione.

“Fancy a chat with Moony later?” 

She didn’t quite smile but her eyes sparkled. It was enough of an answer for Harry. 

*

The rumours spread around the school like wildfire. 

“Smith saw a Dragon on the pitch!” 

“I heard it attacked him and ate his Quaffle…”

“Is he okay?” 

“It’s all a lie. They’re just trying to scare us.”

“It’s a new weapon You-Know-Who made! My cousin is a Dragonkeeper and she’d never heard of the one Smith described. Unless it was an anaemic Peruvian Viper-Tooth, she said.”

Draco had to hold back a laugh for that one. No Dragonkeeper would be familiar with Draco’s Dragon. There were none others like it. There couldn’t be. The Curse was tailored to match Draco exactly; to imitate him in every respect, projecting his soul and body into that of another creature’s. Their soul was one and the same, even if their bodies weren’t. 

Even so, flying above the trees had been tremendously stupid. His mother would have had a fit if she found out. But he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of the limitless sky above. He’d never been able to stretch his wings like that. As much as he hated to admit it, it was truly exhilarating. The Curse was nowhere near satiated. It never was. But it hummed obediently today when Draco ordered it down rather than trying to fight free as it usually did. He feared he’d given it too much last night; a taste of freedom he’d never be able to keep up with. It was too bad. For once in his life he’d almost managed to stop being afraid of the Curse that had dominated his life for three years. 

“If the Dark Lord really has sent a Dragon after Dumbledore,” Said Theo in Potions that afternoon, “He’d better start fireproofing the whole fucking place.”

The funny thing was, Theo was right. The Dark Lord _ had _sent a Dragon after Dumbledore. He just didn’t know it.

Blaise shook his head. “Shut up, Theo. Smith is just yanking our legs.” 

Pansy laughed. “Wouldn’t it be great to see his face if a Dragon came after him though? Ooooooh, I’d love to see Granger getting her knickers in a twist running away from _ that _.” 

At the mention of her name, Granger whipped up her head from the adjacent table to glare at Pansy. 

Draco sighed. “It’s all ridiculous flights of fancy. Everyone’s getting bored. They need something new to talk about.” Granger was watching him. “Isn’t that right, Granger?” He added for good measure, just because he could. 

She narrowed her eyes and Potter shuffled closer to her side, throwing Draco green-eyed daggers. 

Draco looked away, quite unable to bear it. It was the same look he’d hurled at him yesterday in the Owlery, and it set him completely on edge. It wasn’t like the old looks Potter used to give; hormone-fuelled glares of rivalry edged with the exhilaration of another fight. No, these were different. Laced with raw anger and hatred. It unnerved Draco how well he often recognized that look reflected in the mirror and he didn't like to think about what it meant.

“Oh, well done, Harry! Finished with flying colours, as usual.” Slughorn beamed, leaning over to inspect Potter’s cauldron. The steam emitting from his Wolfsbane Potion was a perfect shade of light blue, as specified in the instructions. Draco’s resembled navy sludge, though he hadn’t exactly been paying attention. And that was another thing. When the fuck had Potter decided to get good at Potions? As far as he remembered, he’d needed remedial classes last year. Remedial classes! Well, it was unheard of. Draco had never heard of such a lost cause and he’d laughed himself silly at the prospect of Potter in Remedial Potions with Snape. Now he was sure the whole thing had been a ruse to make him look all the better this year. He’d probably been planning it with Dumbledore since first year. Draco crushed his dried Bitterroot stems to dust in his hands, vanishing his Potion with a swish of his wand. 

Slughorn ambled over. “My, Mr Malfoy where is your concoction?”

“It got away from me, sir.” Said Malfoy blankly, ignoring the dozens of eyes pointed at his head. 

Slughorn merely shook his head and moved on to Gregory’s, which had begun to curdle. 

Blaise bottled his potion, corking it neatly. “Draco, I need some help with this essay. Come to the library in five minutes?” 

“I don’t have time to”-

-”I really think you should.”

Draco glanced at his friend. Blaise’s eyes pierced him like lasers. Fuck. Despite knowing his friend for years, Blaise’s talents as a part Veela still had their effects on Draco. Blaise could be extremely persuasive when he wanted to be, and Draco was sure he was turning his inherited gifts on him right now. 

“Alright. I’ll help.” Draco agreed reluctantly. There was no way this was about homework. His suspicions were confirmed when they reached a dark corner of the library and Blaise pulled _ The Daily Prophet _out of his bag.

“Did you see this?” He demanded, shoving the paper at Draco. 

“No.” Said Draco, “I don’t read the papers anymore.” 

“Well, you should,” Said Blaise. “Someone leaked information about a planned Azkaban mass breakout. Did you know about this?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Draco scoffed, pulling out a book. 

“You didn’t say no.”

“I shouldn’t have to!”

_ “Shhhh!” _

Draco and Blaise threw a glare at the student behind whichever bookcase who had hushed them. 

Draco sighed. “Blaise, you’re being paranoid. Who the fuck would leak that? No one would be that stupid. They’re asking for trouble. It’s a rumour.”

Blaise clicked his tongue. “Yes, there have been a lot of those lately.” 

_ That there’s a Dragon loose on the grounds? _Draco thought, but he suspected that wasn’t what Blaise immediately had in mind. 

“You have to stop avoiding us.” 

“I don’t _ have _to do anything. Alright? I want to be on my own.”

“But you look like shit.”

Draco snorted. “Thanks. Your encouragement knows no bounds.” 

“I’m serious.” Said Blaise, genuine sickening concern tracing his handsome features. The Veela effect was in full swing, Draco noticed. Blaise had long since stopped bragging about it. It probably had something to do with the very messy and very public divorce his mother had gone through in fourth year on account of being Veela. Or perhaps it was more to do with her seduction of as many men and women in politics she could get her hands on. Seduction and persuasion. _ The Prophet _had labelled her a succubus. Draco knew better. Blaise’s mother was a very clever woman, and she’d come very close to influencing politicians in her favour. He had to respect that, even if her methods were... interesting. 

“You keep disappearing at night.”

Draco shook his head. “I can’t sleep. I’ve always had trouble sleeping. You know that.” 

“Guessing the Room of Requirement gives you a nice comfy bed to sleep on, then?”

Draco’s mouth went dry. “What?” 

Blaise leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m not a moron. I’ve seen you go in there. More than once.” 

“You fucking _ followed _me?”

Blaise gave a half-shrug. “It was Theo’s idea. We weren’t getting any answers from _ you. _ So, what are you doing? It’s obviously not secret Potions work. You’re doing terribly.” 

Draco ground his teeth. “None of your fucking business.” He slammed his book on the desk as he stood.

“You know the best way to get revenge on your father probably isn’t by failing. You’d be better off marrying a blood-traitor. Or a muggle born.” Blaise said, inspecting his fingernails.

“Get lost up a hippogriphs arse, Zabini.” 

Right at that moment, a ginger head poked around the corner of the bookcase. 

“If you don’t mind,” Ginerva Weasley seethed, “I’m studying. Go and plot somewhere else. All I can hear is your muttering.” 

Blaise actually raised his eyebrows. Draco pushed past her. 

“You looking for a study partner?” He heard Blaise say, and Weasley’s scandalised reply was lost to the distance as Draco upped his pace. 

This was a disaster. Everything was going completely wrong. If Blaise and Theo had noticed his trips to the seventh floor, they weren’t likely to be the only ones. His first thought was Potter. He sensed a confrontation dawning. He’d just have to do his best to avoid it. 

And “revenge on his father”? Where had that come from? What gave Blaise the idea he wanted _ revenge? _It was such a ridiculous notion it made Draco forget where he was going and he ended up outside the flooded girl’s lavatory on the second floor. Perfect. His exhausted reflection rippled up at him from the lake-come-floor, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the water making his eyes shimmer like that or if he was actually close to tears. The answer became clear, for a moment later hot liquid scalded the corners of his eyes.

_ “Fuck.” _He cursed, wiping his eyes and running into the bathroom before he could be seen. 

Crying was second nature these days. Where Draco’s mind felt like a fortress, his body was the moat, releasing his stresses and anxieties in a way he couldn’t bring himself to like normal people. Then again, normal people weren’t under the same pressure Draco was.

He bent over a sink, dropping his bag on the floor, his entire body racking with such violent sobs he was sure he might be sick. 

Letting himself get taken over by the Curse last night had seemingly made him fragile. He stared at his reflection in the grimy mirror, barely recognising the torn apart expression of anguish on the boy who stared right back. He was a boy. Just a boy. He wasn’t a man. How could he be when he cried at the barest mention of his father? He hadn’t been able to visit him yet. His mother had gone numerous times without him, each time nodding in understanding when Draco said he was too tired or too busy to visit. He couldn’t face him. Not until he’d freed them all from their shame. That was what this was all about, wasn’t it? Shame. Redemption. The Dark Lord’s favour. 

It didn’t feel like redemption. And it certainly didn’t feel like a favour. It was a punishment. 

Draco gripped the sides of the sink, thinking of the package still stowed away in his bag. He had yet to formulate an airtight plan. The Curse scratched at the back of his skull.

“I went out _ yesterday _. Leave me alone.” He croaked at his reflection, “I can’t transform again… not yet…” 

“You know, people will think you’re mad if you start talking to yourself. I should know.” 

Draco almost slipped on the wet floor as he spun around to face who had spoken. She hovered in the air above an old cubicle, offering Draco a wide, toothy smile. Moaning Myrtle. Of fucking course. How had he forgotten about her?

“Hello, Myrtle.” He said tightly.

“Hello, Draco.” She giggled back. 

He narrowed his eyes. “You know me?” 

Myrtle swooped down to the sink beside him, waving a shimmering hand in front of the cracked mirror. 

“Well, of course! I was listening to you talk to Professor Snape on the fourth floor the other day. It’s right next to my other bathroom, you know.” 

Draco tensed. “Is that so?” Could he not take a step without attracting eavesdroppers and stalkers?

“You sounded upset then, too.” Myrtle mewled. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

Draco let out a heavy sigh, allowing his muscles to sag as he leant against the sink. 

“You don’t have a clue, Myrtle… I envy you.”

Myrtle stared at him. “You _ envy _me?” She echoed in fascination. “How fascinating! No one’s ever told me they envy me before. Usually they just come here to laugh and stare.” She hiccuped. “So I hide in my U bend.” 

“Wish I could hide in a U bend.” Draco mumbled, flexing his fingers. Even they felt numb. He dug his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood. The bright crimson was a refreshing contrast against the grey and white that had been his colour palette recently. 

“You could join me if you like,” Myrtle said, twirling her hair. “It might be a bit of a squeeze.” 

“No thank you, Myrtle,” Draco replied hollowly, surprised by how little the prospect of sharing a U bend with a flirty ghost bothered him in comparison to the rest of his life, “But I’ll be sure to let you know if I change my mind.” 

*

All it had taken was a carefully coordinated dungbomb to clear the common room in time for Remus’ visit. Harry loved it when Hermione agreed to mischief. She could be truly wicked when she put her mind to it. “I’m only doing it for the Order.” She’d insisted as Ron and Harry had snickered at the outcry of the other students as the bomb’s noxious gases were released. 

Now Remus’ face was sticking out of the fire, looking wearier than ever. 

“Now I know when I see you three lined up like that I should expect trouble.” He said, smirking. 

Ron held up his hands. “Not me. I’m innocent.”

“Too busy with a certain Miss Brown to get into trouble, I gather?”

Harry sniggered. Ron turned beet red and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“How’d you know?!”

Remus winked. “Word gets around.” 

“Fred and George…” Ron grumbled, turning the colour of his maroon jumper.

“So, Harry. About your letter…” Remus began.

“Yes!” Harry jumped in, “You need to help me convince these two, Remus. I know there’s something going on.”

Remus paused, and Harry held his breath. “There may be something going on Harry, but I don’t believe it’s what you think it is.”

It was like a slap in the face. “No way, not you too...” He found himself saying. 

“Harry, what makes you believe Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater?”

“How is he _ not _ ?!” He flared, throwing his hands in the air and glaring at each one of them in turn. “His father is in Azkaban for it, he sneaks around at weird hours, he _ threatened _me”-

-”Nothing new, mate…” Said Ron under his breath.

-”He’s up to something!” Harry continued furiously, “You _ both _saw him in Borgin and Burkes.”

A resounding silence followed his rant. 

“Remus, _ please _.” He begged. “You have to see it. You know it makes sense.” 

Remus inhaled. “You know, a lot of people said the same about Sirius when he came to Hogwarts.” 

Harry bit the inside of his mouth to prevent himself from firing back a retort. 

“His family were even more notorious than the Malfoys. If anyone was a likely candidate for a Death Eater, it was him. Of course, James and I knew better but you have no idea the taunts he suffered.”

“But… Sirius was a Gryffindor.” Said Harry slowly.

Remus raised a brow. “Do I really need to remind you who else was, Harry?”

_ Peter Pettigrew. _The unspoken name left a sour atmosphere amongst them, and they sat with the silence for an uncomfortable beat. 

“They were terrifying times. Much like now. Everyone was desperate to blame someone, so they chose the easiest targets. I understand why you’re doing it but perhaps Draco is acting strange _ because _of the accusations, Harry.” Said Remus softly, “Not to mention the strain on him now that his father is in prison. I know you have never seen eye to eye”-

-”Understatement of the century”-

-”But you must try,” Remus raised his voice, “to see reason above prejudice.”

Harry could almost feel his blood boiling. _ He _was the prejudiced one? The hypocrisy was mind-numbing. 

“I don’t believe this.” Said Harry, “Can you hear yourselves? This is exactly what Malfoy wants. He laughed at me when he realized no one believed me. He laughed!”

Their expressions didn’t change. 

“Of course he did.” Said Ron. “He’s a twat.” 

“It’s more than that!” Harry shouted. He didn’t even care if he woke everyone up. They all deserved to know the truth. “Malfoy is smart! Smarter than he wants you to think.”

Hermione raised a brow, “You’re complimenting him.”

Harry’s face was heating up. “No I’m not! I’m just saying you’re all being completely blind! He’s got us right under his thumb! This is what Voldemort wants. I would know. I’ve been in his fucking head.” 

Harry struggled to control his breaths. He was kneeling in front of the fire, fists clenched and jaw set. 

Remus gave him a hard look. “Harry, I can tell you’re distressed.” He sighed. “I will _ try _to see if I can convince someone to arrange another inspection at the Manor”-

-”It won’t be enough. They’ll be prepared.” Harry insisted. 

-”But I can’t promise anything.” Remus finished. He contemplated each of them. “I have to go. Please remember to focus on your studies and try and not to get too distracted. I will see what I can do, Harry, but I honestly don’t think you have to worry about Mr Malfoy.” 

Harry nodded. “We’ll see.” 

Somehow their expressions of pity were a thousand times worse than the skepticism he’d faced at the start of the year. It was as he thought. He’d have to do this alone. 

*

He shouldn’t have opened it. He knew he shouldn’t have opened it. But, as always, his curiosity had got the better of him. The Vanishing Cabinet looming above him, Draco aimed a careful _ Diffindo _ at the well-sealed package his mother had sent him a few weeks ago. The brown paper split cleanly, and the first deadly wink of the necklace’s many beads revealed itself, innocently nestled amongst the packaging. It had come with a single note attached: _ Aeterna Somnum. _

Draco drew in a shaky breath. _ “Wingardium Leviosa.” _

The necklace floated in perfect form above the floor, its storm-grey iridescent opals catching the wan light. 

Whereas Draco himself had thought of poisoned mead, his mother had come up with this cruel plan to use the necklace as a means to end Dumbledore’s reign as the greatest living wizard of all time once and for all. He had no idea what would happen to the victim who touched the necklace. Simply being in its presence sickened him, causing a bout of nausea to rock him sideways on his heels as he knelt on the floor opposite the cursed object.

December winds howled outside, rattling the windows and splattering the castle with flurries of snow. It was only two weeks until the holidays. He had to do this now or never. Gritting his teeth with a whorl of terror knotted in his abdomen, Draco carefully levitated the necklace back into its packaging and resealed the paper. He had a plan, rough though it was. It was nowhere near as coordinated as his scheme with the mead had been, and even now he had no confirmation whether Madam Rosmerta had passed it on to Slughorn or not. He was shooting in the dark. This would take luck. Luck and good timing on his part. 

Draco had evaded every trip to Hogsmeade so far, so when he approached Blaise and asked if he could tag along, his friend was more than a little surprised. The excited chatter of his friends and peers around him on the way blurred into fathomless noise, as if someone had cast a _ Muffliato _on his ears. Blaise and Theo were angling for Honeydukes, but Draco split off.

“I’m gonna use the loo in the Three Broomsticks.” He told them quickly. “Be right there.”

A pinch of truth made a lie go a long way. Even Blaise didn’t question it. Draco felt like he was in a daze as he tugged up his hood, cast a Disillusionment charm on himself, pushed past the crowds in the pub, and slipped into the girl’s bathroom. The charm was effective, but in such a small space it was possible one of the girls could notice him. He quickly locked himself in a free cubicle. Trying to control his breathing, Draco freed the package from his snow-soaked bag with shaking hands. 

Now all he had to do was wait. The bathroom emptied minutes later, and it wasn’t long before Draco spotted one pair of feet from under his cubicle door. He exited, immediately casting an _ Imperio _on the unsuspecting girl. 

Her dark eyes went completely blank. He had to act quickly. 

“Take this package and…” He trailed off, realizing he recognized her. It was Gryffindor’s Katie Bell. She was a pure-blood. Draco shook his head. Why did it _ matter _? “Take this package,” He said firmly, “and take it to Professor Dumbledore right away. Nod if you understand.” Katie nodded, outstretching her hands. Draco shoved the package into her arms, continuing, “You won’t remember me.” 

He fled the bathroom, his magic weakening as his resolve died, the Disillusionment charm becoming useless. 

He barely made it out of the back door of the pub before a dizzying wave of nausea hit and he was violently sick. By the time he was finished, he felt completely empty - hollowed out by his terrible deed and left shivering and sodden in the snow. Muted laughter coming from inside the pub mocked him, and his very own Curse began to take advantage of his frail body, curling under the top layer of his skin and tempting him with the prospect of freedom and warmth his human body simply couldn’t give. 

“No…” Draco choked out, leaning heavily against the wall. “No, no, no. I won’t transform. I won’t.” 

The Curse was too close. Closer than it had ever been outside the comfort of the Manor. Draco hauled himself away from the pub and back towards Hogwarts, stumbling on the uneven, snowy ground. 

_ “Mother… what’s happening to me?” _

_ His parent’s faces, usually so stoic and strong, crumpled into sorrow above his bed. His body felt like it was on fire. His skin was strange… he didn’t feel right… like he would melt or explode at any second. _

_ “It’s the Curse, isn’t it?” His mother whispered to his father, who nodded solemnly. _

_ Draco began to cry. “What Curse? Who cursed me? I don’t want to die…” _

_ His mother knelt by his bedside, cradling his scorching hands in hers. _

_ “You won’t die, my darling.” She told him, tears spilling down her pale face. “You won’t. But you have to be strong for us now.” _

_ His father’s expression became hard. “Take him downstairs. It isn’t safe up here. There isn’t enough room.” _

_ Draco began to panic as his mother sobbed. He was on fire. His muscles spasmed and his lungs felt too large for his chest. _

_ “Enough room for what? Father, please. Help me.” _

Draco burst into his dorm room. Gregory was sat at his desk, pouring over homework. Draco hadn’t even noticed his absence in Hogsmeade. Gregory frowned.

“Draco? What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t answer. He was burning up. He slammed into the bathroom, dialling on the shower.

_ His father all but dragged him downstairs, discarding him onto the cold marble floor of the Manor’s ballroom. His mother followed, pleading with Lucius to wait, but he wouldn’t listen. _

_ “From now on, Draco, you must listen to exactly what we tell you, do you understand?” _

_ Draco looked up at his father tearfully. “Yes, father.” He whimpered as his vision blurred. _

_ “Oh, it’s happening.” His mother gasped. _

_ “Come, Narcissa.” Said his father, coercing his mother to the tall, black double doors. “Leave him.” _

_ “We can’t!” His mother cried. _

_ “We have no choice!” His father hissed back. “Come, quickly, before”- _

_ And that was were Draco’s memory hit a blank. _

The icy water turned to steam against Draco’s skin. He sat naked under the cold torrent, allowing it to douse the Curse back into submission. When he dared to look at the skin on his arms, he saw it had already begun to change texture, silver scales poking through the fine blond hair on his forearms. 

“Why now?” He addressed it, “Fucking go back down… are you trying to get my family killed?” 

Draco forced himself to take in long breaths until the water on his back no longer burned but chilled him. He rubbed the pendant, willing the scales to disappear. When he looked back down, they were gone. 

He sighed, turning off the shower. “Thank you.” 

The Curse still felt too close for comfort, but he had it under control for now. He couldn’t let himself get so worked up again. He’d done what he’d been told to do. He was doing everything _ right _ \- even the Vanishing Cabinet was starting to make sense to him. So why was he feeling worse? His secret was safe. He’d carried out both the mead and the necklace plan all by himself, and it looked like Dumbledore was well on his way to being dead. Maybe even by the end of the day if Katie Bell did what she was told. 

So why did he feel worse? 

He blamed it on his adventures in the forest. Ever since, he’d been able to think of nothing else. The exhilaration of flying so freely, of being able to let his Dragon form grow so large, had been nagging at him ever since. He’d been right. The Curse had grown more persistent since then. If it weren’t for the Manor currently being occupied by the very forces he had to keep the Curse away from, he’d be able to go home and use the Sky Room. It was built by his parents in the heart of the Manor after his first transformation. The room was placed under an undetectable extension charm, and spanned the underbelly of the house - a domed prison for when the Curse became unbearable and Draco had no choice but to release it. He’d tried not to think of the room as a cell, but after his flight in the forest, he now understood the limitations it had been holding on him. There simply wasn’t enough _ room _. The helplessness of it all descended on Draco, causing his skin to spike with heat again. He tempered it, drying himself furiously before quietly returning to the dorm. It was only the afternoon, but Draco barely had the strength to climb into bed. 

“Are you ill?” Asked Gregory from his desk. “You look ill.” 

Draco closed his eyes, the softness of his sheets already a welcome reprieve. 

“I don’t know.” He replied. “I’ve been better.” 

As Draco fell asleep, he imagined himself flying amidst the white clouds, blending in with the snow around him and becoming wind itself, gliding freely above the castle with no restraints… no responsibilities… it would be so easy, and yet it was impossible. 

_ When he awoke, it was amidst charred stone and smoke. The ballroom was a wreckage, whereas he himself was unharmed. He coughed, and smoke puffed from his lips from where it had been hiding in his lungs. _

_ “Mother? Father?” He called out. His throat burned. _

_ The ceiling was falling apart, and shafts of sunlight pooled in the ash, illuminating the swirling smoke and dust. Two figures crouched in the open doorway, a last minute shield charm thrown up to prevent the fire from burning the rest of the house. _

_ “Draco?” His mother rasped. His father was unresponsive. Draco couldn’t see his face. How long had it been? Seconds? Minutes? It could even have been years. _

_ His mother’s gasp sobered Draco. “Lucius! Lucius, look at me.” _

_ Draco rose from the smoking debris around him, his naked skin unaffected by the heat. All the pain was coming from inside of him. He padded through piles of ash and stone until he was standing by his parents. He stared, horror-stricken when he saw his father’s face. _

_ “Father… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to...” _

  
  


*

The Gryffindor common room was quiet that night. News of Katie Bell’s curse spread quickly, and a sombre air muted the atmosphere. Ever since Harry’s outburst in front of Snape and McGonagall earlier, Hermione and Ron had been bracing themselves for more. He could see it in the way they held their breaths around him, but he couldn’t bring himself to argue about Malfoy again. He was past hoping they would see sense. Leanne, the girl who’d been with Katie, was inconsolable. She was so distressed Ginny had to take her to the hospital wing. Harry blamed himself for not keeping an eye on the map. If he’d been looking at the right moment, he could have caught Malfoy in the act. There was no way the culprit wasn’t Malfoy. The trip to Hogsmeade was the perfect opportunity to slip Katie the package and avoid suspicion. He confined himself to his dorms and kept the map close by his side all night, only alternating from staring at Malfoy’s name to flick through the Half-Blood Prince’s scrawlings. The notes had a calming effect on Harry. It was like reading a diary, though vastly different from the organized whimsy of Tom Riddle’s diary. These ink blotched scrawlings were a glimpse into someone real. Someone with haphazard thoughts and uncertain questions and a defining tendency to challenge the instructions he was given. Harry related to that. 

_ Sectumsempra - For enemies, _ one note read. Harry thought instantaneously of Malfoy. The next time he saw the Slytherin make a move, he vowed to follow him, regardless of what his friends said.  
But it wasn’t that easy, as Harry soon discovered. 

The workload was becoming astronomical. Every teacher seemed hellbent on giving them so much work that they were either confined to the library or their rooms. Not to mention, Slughorn wasn’t in the best mood with Harry, and with only a few days left until the end of term, he was getting increasingly antsy. It was his own fault. He should have known not to ask him outright about the Horcruxes. But as he’d said to Dumbledore on their last meeting: subtlety had never been his strong point. The headmaster had chuckled at that. Even so, the pressure to complete his task was amounting to a feeling of general helplessness during every Potions lesson when Slughorn deliberately avoided Harry’s eye and had started referring to him as “Mr. Potter.” Ouch. 

On top of everything, he still hadn’t heard back from Remus regarding a potential inspection on Malfoy Manor, and the boy himself was proving next to impossible to catch. Harry had abandoned his work numerous times over the last week to flee to the seventh floor, but always - _ always - _Malfoy disappeared into the Room of Requirement before Harry could intercept him. 

It was their last Potions lesson, and Slughorn had let them off by assigning them the simple task of creating a Confusing Concoction in pairs. Ron and Lavender paired up, and Hermione turned to work with Pavarti. She’d been tenuously avoiding Harry since his shameless attempts at catching Malfoy, but he couldn’t even bring himself to be angry. He could work on his own. 

“Ah, Mr. Potter. Go and pair up with Mr. Malfoy, would you? Merlin knows he could do with the help.” Said Slughorn, much to Harry’s dismay. Malfoy was indeed alone. His cronies had all partnered up with each other instead of him. 

“But, sir”- Harry began. Then he remembered challenging Slughorn when he was supposed to be persuading a memory out of him really wasn’t wise. He sighed, gathering his books and sloping off to the adjacent table. “Yes.”

Malfoy didn’t even glance up from his cauldron to sneer at Harry as he walked over. 

“Just for the record,” Harry began forcefully, removing his ingredients one by one, “I can do this by myself.” 

“Sure.” Malfoy replied blandly without so much as a glance at Harry. It wasn’t even sarcastic. 

Harry silently fumed as he unpacked the rest of what they needed, opening his book with an irritated flourish. As he worked, he gleaned some satisfaction from the fact that whatever Malfoy was doing, it clearly wasn’t going well. He looked like a ghost. His overgrown pale hair fell in front of his translucent eyes and his shoulders slumped forward into a hunch - a far cry from the arrogant stance of the boy Harry had been rivals with. It was difficult to consider Malfoy a rival now that he saw him as a Death Eater. Perhaps ‘enemy’ was closer suited considering he was working with the man who had killed his parents. 

Harry tipped three quarters of his Lacewing Flies into his cauldron. “I know it was you.”

Malfoy neglected to answer, copying Harry’s step robotically.

“Katie Bell is in a coma in St. Mungos. _ You _did that. I know you did. You’re so easy to figure out.” Harry whispered.

Mafoy’s hand stilled over his cauldron. He looked up, his gaze poison through his fringe. 

“Would you like a medal?” 

Harry gaped. Was that an _ admission _. “So you did do it.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Said Malfoy, muttering an incantation under his breath and setting the contents of his cauldron alight. They burned a perfect magenta. 

Harry threw his Tentacula seeds into a beaker. 

“You’re full of shit, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy sighed. “A Gryffindor is in possession of an illegal cursed object and she hurts herself. What a surprise. Let’s blame the Slytherins. A Slytherin is in possession of an illegal cursed object and suddenly he’s a Death Eater.” He drawled. “Also your Concoction isn’t supposed to be that colour. I thought you were meant to be Slughorn’s little Potions prince. Although I did notice he’s not exactly paying you attention lately. Is that what’s got you flailing about like a Confounded Flobberworm?”

Harry seethed, correcting his mistake. A second later his flames were the same colour as Malfoy’s.

“You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s mere marks away from failing.” Harry spat back. “As for the ‘cursed illegal object’, Katie was under the _ Imperius _curse when she got it. As someone who had his house searched for plenty of those, you should know how it ended up in her hands.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Every guilty person claims they were under the _ Imperius _curse when they get found out.”

Harry stirred his potion slowly. “Just like your father.” 

Harry expected to have a hex fired furiously his way, or even to be primitively shoved to the ground. He braced himself for it. Instead he was met with silence.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” He goaded. “Or is it because you know you’re going to be in the exact same position when I catch you?” 

“I thought I warned you, Potter,” Malfoy murmured darkly, “Not to stick your nose into things you know nothing about.” 

Harry shrugged, chopping his Knotgrass. “It doesn’t matter. Your lies are meaningless. I’ll catch you.” 

Malfoy was staring at the movement of his hands. Harry stopped.

“Are you _ listening _?” 

Malfoy tugged the chopping board away from Harry. “You’re meant to cut them into fine strips. Not large ones.” He muttered, taking his own knife and chopping the Knotgrass _ for _him. “This is such a simple Potion, Potter. How you’re getting this wrong and not the Draught of Living Death, I honestly don’t know.” 

Harry opened and closed his mouth. If it weren’t for Malfoy’s dead expression and his flat tone, he’d be certain he was joking. 

“Malfoy”-

-”Yes, Potter.” Malfoy heaved a sigh. “You’re going to catch me. I was listening. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you didn’t flunk something as easy as a Confusing Concoction. Slughorn will undoubtedly blame me, not you.” 

This was so different to what he expected. He’d been pushing for a fight, he was well aware, but Malfoy simply wasn’t rising to it. He was either being incredibly smart about this or he genuinely didn’t care what Harry had to say. Somehow, the latter idea infuriated Harry more. Malfoy pushed the chopping board back towards Harry, his Knotgrass lying in neat, fine strips. Harry grabbed them and scattered them chaotically into the cauldron. The silence in the wake of Malfoy’s bizarre conduct yawned between them, and despite himself, Harry snorted a laugh. 

“Inhale some Abraxan hair, did you?” Malfoy remarked. 

“You’re a Death Eater.” Harry muttered, laughing. “And yet here you are telling me how to chop bloody Knotgrass. I can’t believe this.” 

Malfoy stared at him like _ he _was the one who was going mad. Harry could hardly dispute it. He was laughing in the face of evil. He must have ingested some of the fumes from his Confusing Concoction after all. 

*

Harry Potter was unequivocally one of the strangest people Draco had ever met. They completed the rest of the task in silence. Every now and again Draco looked up and caught Potter shaking his head, seemingly in disbelief, or murmuring something unintelligible under his breath. The steam had caused a flush to rise on Potter’s face, and his glasses had steamed up. Didn’t the boy even know how to cast a simple _ Impervius _ ? Draco almost did it for him before he realized how ridiculous that would make him look. He hadn’t cut the Knotgrass to _ help _Potter, as he’d mistakenly appeared to believe, but because he hated things being done incorrectly. True, his recent work in most of his classes would suggest otherwise, but usually Draco made sure his work was immaculate. There was a reason he was almost top of the year. Potter was an idiot if he thought he’d be able wind him up again. The comment about his father had been somewhat infuriating, yes, but it was also predictable. Draco had been prepared. He wouldn’t show weakness in front of Potter again. So far, it was working. He wasn’t about to fool himself into thinking he’d shaken Potter off his tail; the Gryffindor was too stubborn to give up his chase now. However he had thrown him. Just a little. It was quite satisfying actually, watching Potter’s face morph to one of dumbstruck perplexity as Draco had chopped his Knotgrass. He was debating pulling another stunt to throw Potter off guard but the lesson was almost over and Slughorn was making his rounds. For the first time in a while, Draco had made a perfect Potion. Even Slughorn couldn’t deny it as he gave Draco and Potter an approving nod. With an exhale of relief that the day was finally over, Draco bottled his Potion and brought it to the front, unwilling to acknowledge Potter’s presence on his way out, despite feeling the heat of his stare on the back of his neck until there were at least three walls and two floors between them. 

When he returned to the dorm, Blaise was admiring himself in the mirror, fully kitted out in dress robes.

“Where are you going?” Asked Draco, because he couldn’t help himself. 

“Slughorn’s Christmas party.” Blaise replied. “Don’t get tetchy because I didn’t ask you to be my date.” He winked. 

Draco didn’t laugh. “Right. Well. Knock yourself out.” He was too busy to dwell on something so low-grade as one of Slughorn’s sanctimonious gatherings. He had a Vanishing Cabinet to fix, and very little time to do it before the holidays. A thought occurred to him. Would he be able to return to the Manor this Christmas in the light of the Dark Lord’s decision to make it a temporary base? He had no intention of missing Christmas with his mother, but there was the issue of his transformation,which he could no longer do at home. That was something he’d have to think about later. As soon as Blaise left half an hour later to meet his mystery date, Draco made his way to the seventh floor. 

He didn’t think much of the decorations he saw on his way up, but he should have. The unmistakable din of a party reached Draco’s ears as he vaulted the last stair. Fuck. Slughorn’s party… was being held _ here _ ? As Draco’s bad luck would have it, it was. It was spread over two floors, in fact. Granted, the seventh floor was mainly accommodated by waiters, but there was no way he could sneak in and not be noticed. He’d just have to crash the party and make his way to the back of the corridor where the beckoning blank stretch of wall mocked him. _ Fuck _. 

It took only five minutes of unsuccessfully sneaking around before Draco was caught. By Filch no less.

“Let go of me!” Draco protested as the hobbling caretaker dragged him down to the sixth floor where the party was in full swing. “I just lost my invitation, that’s all!” 

“Oh ho ho, you’re comin’ wiv me, boy.” Filch growled, spitting all over Draco’s neck. To his horror, he was heaved right in front of Slughorn and - _ fucking Potter _.

“Get your hands off me you filthy squib!” Draco pushed the caretaker off him in a rather unsuccessful attempt to regain some of his dignity. 

“I found him loitering upstairs.” Said Filch, “Claims he was invited.”  
Draco ground his teeth. “Fine!” He spat in Slughorn’s direction, “I gatecrashed, alright?” 

He tried not to look at Potter, but Potter was staring at him, Draco’s oddball distant cousin by his side. Interesting. He’d always suspected Potter and the Weasley girl were an item, not Loony Lovegood. It momentarily caught Draco off guard how… _ put together _Potter looked. Unlike his positively mediocre dress robes at the Yule Ball, Potter almost looked presentable now, well dressed in rather nicely fitted black robes. Not that he had any excuse not to be. Potter could hire people to dress him if he wanted. They probably bowed at his feet for the opportunity to clothe the Chosen One. The very idea made Draco narrow his scowl directly at Potter. 

Snape stepped into Draco’s line of sight, snapping his connection with Potter. Draco resented that.

“I’ll see to Mr. Malfoy.” Snape said with the air of someone with an awful taste in their mouth. He placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco resisted shrugging him off with all his might as the Professor led him out of the party and into a deserted corridor around the corner. He shoved him hard, and Draco nearly fell. 

“What… are you playing at?” He enunciated with furious precision. 

Draco straightened himself. “I was _ trying _to get to the Cabinet! Who’s stupid bloody idea was it to have this here? Didn’t you even try to stop it?” 

“My task is to protect you, Draco, not aid you.” Snape retorted. “I made an Unbreakable Vow to make sure you are not killed, and so far you are not making it easy for me to keep it.” 

“If I’m killed it’ll be because you stopped me from doing what I’ve got to!” Draco shouted. “I was chosen! Me! Not you. Leave me alone.” Even as he said it, the Curse battled inside Draco’s chest - the adrenaline of being caught matched next to his confrontation with Potter and Snape began riling him to the point where it was getting dangerous again. His skin prickled and he rubbed his arm. 

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Are you in pain?” He queried.

“That brainless squib hauled me around like a piece of meat. He should be sacked for abusing students.” With that, Draco swept past Snape and made for the stairs. He couldn’t go back to his dorm like this. He felt like he was about to explode. There was only one thing for it. Sir Gregory the Smarmy’s statue had an expression that was as oily as ever, and proved a strange comfort to Draco as he slipped into the tunnel towards the Forbidden Forest. 

The Curse was practically zinging through his body at the prospect of being set free. After all, it had only been a couple of weeks since the last time. Usually he waited months until he couldn’t bear it anymore. 

Draco had neglected to bring clean clothes. He hadn’t had the time. So he discarded his own by a distinct tree with an S shaped trunk, shivering in the snow and feeling more exposed and vulnerable than ever as he stepped into the clearing. Fat snowflakes fell against his skin, and he felt each one melt against him, the coldness gradually dissipating as the Curse heated him from his core. 

He hardly had time to prepare himself before the Curse took him over completely. This time, he would make sure not to breach the canopy of the trees. As thrilling as it was, he couldn’t risk anymore blatherings from tell-tale Hufflepuffs. Draco transformed, growing even larger than last time, and the sky was his once again. 

*

Harry raced back to his dorm to retrieve the map, his heart singing with success. Now he had proof that Malfoy was up to something _ and _ that Snape was helping him. He had of course suspected his new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher of dabbling in an alliance with Voldemort, but he hadn’t dared to think for a second that he might be right. Harry had no idea what an Unbreakable Vow was, but if it was anything like the name suggested then the head of Slytherin house and his pupil were in a serious tangle. Harry felt bad for abandoning Luna but she’d seemed quite happy engaged in an animated conversation with a pair of vampires about Erumpent breeding habits. 

The only person awake when he returned was Neville.

“Alright, Harry? How was the par”-

-”Neville, will you come with me?” Harry asked breathlessly, unsure exactly what he was planning yet. 

“Erm, sure. Everything okay?” 

“Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater.” Harry whispered. Ron was snoring. 

Neville blinked. “Righto.” He snatched his cloak off the end of his bed, kicked on his shoes and accompanied Harry out of the Gryffindor common room. Harry grinned. He’d forgotten how great Neville could be in situations like this. He didn’t over analyze or ask too many questions like Ron and Hermione. He was just there exactly when you needed. Harry felt a squirm of guilt for not including his two best friends, but he already knew how they’d react. It wasn’t worth it. 

On the run down the stairs, Harry took the map out and searched for Malfoy’s name, frowning when he failed to spot him in the castle. They stopped on the second floor.

“Neville, can you see him on the map?” 

Neville gaped at the map, and Harry wanted to kick himself. He’d forgotten Neville had never seen it before.

“Harry, _ everyone _is on here, what the”-?

-”I promise I’ll explain later. Just tell me if you can see Malfoy.” 

Letting out a low whistle at the Marauder’s legacy, Neville gingerly took the map from Harry, scanning it.

He pointed. “There. The… _ Christ _, that’s the Forbidden Forest.”

Harry snatched the map back. Neville was right. Malfoy’s label was in the heart of the forest and… wait… he was _ zooming _ , travelling at a pace far faster than running. He must be on a broom. But _ why _? Harry had to find out. 

“We have to catch him at it.” Harry panted, bolting down corridor after corridor until they reached the grounds.

“Catch him”- _ wheeze _ \- “at” - _ wheeze - _“what?” Asked Neville, red-faced from having to keep up.

“Dunno yet.” 

A thick, glittering blanket of snow spread amongst them, folding over hills and stones right to the dark line of the forest. Neville and Harry almost slid down the hill in their haste, guided onward by the stars above and the warm orange light projected from the small window in Hagrid’s hut. 

Neville doubled over, catching his breath. Harry peered at the treeline, wondering whether it was worth it. The Forbidden Forest was even darker than usual thanks to the thickets of snow covering every branch and blocking out even the meagre light from the stars. He’d never exactly been a fan of the place, but Malfoy was in there… doing evil things… 

“What now?” Asked Neville, clutching a stitch on his side. 

“I’m not sure.” Said Harry. 

“No offense, Harry but I really don’t want to go in.” 

Harry couldn’t condemn him for that. “Yeah. Nah. We won’t go in. We’ll wait.”

Neville grimaced. “Alright.” 

Harry conjured a bench for the pair to sit on and cast a warming charm. Neville sighed with relief, sitting down. 

“Scared me there, Harry.” He said with a laugh. “I thought someone had been hurt. It felt like last year, you know… before…”

“Before the Ministry.” Harry finished for him, casting his mind back to the sense of urgency they’d carried with them as they’d sprinted to the Forest and called upon the Thestrals for aid. And then Sirius...

“So about that map…” Said Neville.

Harry let out a breath, grateful for the interruption to his thoughts.

“It’s a long story, but basically my dad and his mates made it when they were here, and then Fred and George got hold of it and then they gave it to me so I could sneak into Hogsmeade in third year. It’s been pretty useful.” 

Neville was nodding. “Yeah, I can see why. You’d get into so much trouble if McGonagall found out though. Be careful.” 

Harry beamed. “Always am, Nev.” _ Except when I’m not _. 

They waited for a long, long time. And all the while, Harry kept his eyes on the map, baffled by how Malfoy could be travelling at the speeds he was. Unless the map had malfunctioned, he was up to something very strange indeed. Harry thought of Buckbeak and flying around this same forest on his back years ago, but the chances of Malfoy riding on a hippogriff were just about as likely as Harry sitting down for tea with Bellatrix Lestrange. So what _ was _ he doing?  
More than an hour later, Neville gave a tremendous yawn beside him.

“Neville, you should go back.” Said Harry after they’d been silent for some time. 

“You should come too.” 

Harry shook his head. “I need to find out what he was doing, and I was the one who dragged you down here.” Neville made a move to argue, but Harry continued, “If I’m not back in three hours, send someone down to look for me.” 

He nodded. “Alright. If you’re sure. G’night, Harry.”

“Night, Nev.” 

When the last of Neville’s footsteps crunching into the snow had receded into silence, Harry spoke to Malfoy’s name on the map, which was now making odd loops in figures of eight over a wide expanse of the Forest. 

“Show yourself.” He told it. “I know you’re there.” 

It took another two whole hours before Harry was ready to give up. He hadn’t noticed the warming charm gradually wear off, and his legs were blocks of ice when he stood from the bench. He vanished it, frustrated, and cast another charm on himself, shuddering as the heat ensconced him. He was still in his dress robes. He should have brought a cloak. 

He hesitated, glancing between the castle and the trees. There was every chance he could be walking straight into a trap. Perhaps this was the plan. Or perhaps this was the only chance he could get. But before Harry had the chance to decide what to do, a pale figure emerged from the treeline, his torso and feet bare.

Harry stared, having no time to hide himself, and the figure stopped on the bank of the trees. 

They stood like that for what felt like an age. He felt outside of time, outside of logic and reality.

“Malfoy.” Said Harry, finally summoning the willpower to move. He took one step towards his enemy, and his enemy took one step back. 

“Potter.” He replied, his voice low and harsh. The quality of the sound unnerved Harry. There was an inhuman timbre about it. And it wasn’t just his voice. Malfoy’s appearance was startling. The only thing he wore on his top half was an unusual green pendant around a silver chain, the small plain charm nestled in the hollow of his throat. His bare seeker’s build lurched forward as if to pounce, his usually neat hair parted and spread across his forehead carelessly. 

It evoked a strange sensation deep in Harry’s abdomen, and he withdrew his wand from his back pocket as the feeling rose inside him. 

He pointed it at Malfoy, the _ Sectumsempra _ready and waiting on his lips as their breaths puffed out swirls of mist into the expanse of space between them. It was the only sound before they were interrupted by another visitor. A ghostly swoop caught Harry’s eye to Malfoy’s left, and the boy’s very own Eagle owl dropped a package straight into his hands before flying off again. Even Malfoy seemed surprised by the arrival, turning the package over, wide eyed.

“Open it.” Harry ordered, jabbing his wand in Malfoy’s direction. 

Malfoy stilled. “Why should I?” He rasped, his voice marred with the same animalistic tonality as before.

“Because I told you to.” Harry continued, amazed by his own assertiveness. 

He could see Malfoy weighing his options as he flicked his gaze between the package, Harry’s wand, and Harry himself. He must have decided Harry was serious about his threat, for a moment later there was a faint rip as Malfoy carefully unwrapped the package. 

Harry narrowed his eyes at its contents.

It was a mirror. That was all. There was no note. Only a handheld, round silver mirror that Malfoy now held delicately between his long, pallid fingers. The very sight of Malfoy holding it was an image on its own, and the strangeness of it almost dislodged Harry’s caution as he stared. 

“What is it?” He demanded.

Malfoy raised a brow, turning his attention back to him. 

“Are you sure those hideous glasses of yours are adequate, Potter?” He remarked, his voice sounding a lot more normal now it was drenched in disdain. 

“Don’t be smart.” Harry snapped. “Tell me what it’s for.” 

Malfoy shook his head. “I don’t know.” He replied, eyeing Harry’s wand again. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Tell me the truth, Malfoy!”

“I am!” 

Their voices ricocheted around the snow padded landscape, carrying into the forest. Harry couldn’t tell whether Malfoy was lying or not, but the pucker in his brow and the way his chest was rising and falling made him believe he might be telling the truth, as much as he hated to admit it. In the distance, Hagrid’s front door slammed. They both looked towards the sound like startled rabbits. 

“Do you want them to find you like this?” Said Harry, raising his wand higher.

To his surprise, Malfoy only laughed.

“I should ask you the same. Who’s the one fully dressed with his wand pointed at me? Looking like _ this _?” 

_ Fuck _. Malfoy had a point. Out of the two of them, Harry certainly looked the most incriminating. But he did have his invisibility cloak, and Malfoy didn’t know that. Voices sounded from the castle. He didn’t have much time. 

“Well?” Asked Malfoy, “What will it be?” 

Harry clenched his jaw, heart hammering. “Tell me what you were doing.”

“No. Way.” 

“Tell me and I’ll hide you. I’ll hide both of us.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed in the dark. “What are you talking about?” 

“My invisibility cloak. You know? The one you threw on top of me after breaking my nose on the train?” Harry said through gritted teeth as wand lights clustered at the top of the hill. “I can hide us under it.” 

He was off his rocker. This was his _ enemy_. Malfoy might have been thinking the same, but they were quickly running out of options. 

“Alright.” Malfoy agreed. His lips curled into a smirk. “Come here, Potter.” 

Harry felt like he was walking into the jaws of a crocodile as he approached Malfoy, tugging his cloak free. He kept his wand out, pointed firmly at him.

“Try anything and I’ll hex you.”

“Noted.” Said Malfoy, eyes twinkling with unmistakable amusement. Up close, he gave off a radiating heat that threw Harry off completely. He should be _ freezing_. 

Unable to believe what he was doing, Harry threw his cloak around both of them, closer to Malfoy than he’d been since the day he’d pushed him against the doorframe in the Owlery. Being the taller one out of the two of them, Malfoy took it upon himself to hold the cloak above them as they half-crouched, half-stood in the treeline. As a result, one of his arms was thrown around Harry’s shoulders. He was surprisingly lean, Harry thought as the teachers reached the spot he’d been stood in moments earlier, his footprints still visible in the snow. He’d expected Malfoy to be nothing but skin and bones after the way he’d looked over the past couple of months, but that simply wasn’t the case. He was thinner, yes, but still distinctly muscular, and he gave off an earthy, citrusy aroma. It wasn’t all too unpleasant, Harry thought, catching himself actively _ inhaling _ Malfoy’s scent too late. The whole experience was bizarre. This wasn’t how Harry pictured this going down at all, and he was even more shocked to discover all of his anger had evaporated in light of the situation he was in. All he could think was: _ what the fuck? _

Snape was the closest to the forest. He shone his wand in the direction of the trees, eyes narrowed. Hagrid loped behind.

“Are you sure you saw them, Hagrid?” He asked, skeptical.

“Yer damn well right, I did.” Hagrid insisted, “Two of ‘em… one of ‘em looked like…”

“Like who?” Asked McGonagall sharply.

Hagrid scratched his beard. “Well… nevermin’... it was far away, after all.” 

Harry silently thanked Hagrid. Obviously he’d seen him, but chosen not to tell. Harry risked a glance up at Malfoy. His face was set in stone, so blanched his features could have been carved from marble. He met Harry’s eye. 

They were stuck here until the teachers decided to leave. Thanks to the snow, they couldn’t run under the cloak. Their footprints would be seen. This was Harry’s stupid idea after all. Harry shook his head as though to convey this. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

The whole of Malfoy’s left arm was visible to Harry now, and he was amazed (and disappointed) to see that it was devoid of markings. No defining skull and snake inked onto his forearm. Just smooth, white skin peppered with light golden hairs and prominent blue veins, his bicep tensed with the effort of holding the cloak above their heads for so long. Harry felt pathetic and stupid, crouched under his so-called nemesis without either the courage nor evidence to step out from under the cloak and proclaim Malfoy guilty, and with Snape right here there was no chance. He sucked in a deep breath of frustration and Malfoy shot him a look of pure panic. 

_ “Shut the fuck up!” _He mouthed. 

_ “Or what?” _ Harry mouthed back. _ “You’ll curse me too?” _

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. _ “So dramatic.” _He silently snickered, full of humour. Harry searched his face for malice but found none. He looked like a different person. The mirror in Malfoy’s other hand winked Harry’s own disbelieving green eyes back at him. 

This was getting weirder by the second. 

Whole minutes passed this way, and it was a while before the teachers gave up and headed back to the castle, grumbling amongst themselves. 

Snape lingered, shining his wand at the trees one last time.

“Piss… off…” Malfoy whispered at Snape, quiet enough so only Harry could hear, and they both let out a sigh of relief once the teachers were well out of sight. 

Malfoy looked down at him. “Your wand is stabbing me in the ribs.”

Harry jabbed it in harder, waiting for Malfoy to wince. He didn’t. Bastard. 

“What were you doing in the forest?” 

Malfoy feigned disappointment. “Really? You’re interrogating me already? You don’t want to celebrate our successful little insurgency against the same staff who do nothing but sing your praises?” 

“Not Snape.” Said Harry. “He hates me.”

“He wouldn’t be the only one.” Said Malfoy. “Ow.” 

Harry allowed himself a smirk, and removed some of the pressure. He really shouldn’t be enjoying this. 

“So? Tell me what you were doing, Malfoy, or I’ll make sure they come right back.” 

All trace of amusement was wiped off Malfoy’s face. It was incredible how much just a change of expression transformed him back into the boy Harry was familiar with. He almost mourned the loss of Malfoy’s amused smile until he remembered who he was talking to. 

Malfoy withdrew from Harry’s side, pulling the cloak off them both and handing it back. Harry took it, taking care to keep his wand pointed at him. 

“I needed to get out.” Said Malfoy flatly. 

Harry scowled. “You gatecrashed the party.” 

“Shouldn’t be surprising.” 

“You’re right. But why?” 

Malfoy’s eye twitched ever so slightly. “There were reporters there. I’ve been trying to clear my family’s name for months, Potter.”

It made sense. Of course it did. But Harry knew that can’t have been the only reason.

“And the Room of Requirement? You go there all the time. I’ve seen you.”

“I let you have one question.” Said Malfoy, his voice low.

“And you haven’t answered it!” 

Malfoy sneered. “Yes I did, you simply didn’t like the answer. I needed to get out. I needed to...” He gave a single, humourless laugh, “spread my wings.” 

“You were on a broom or something.” Said Harry, “Flying.” 

Malfoy took a step back. “How did you know that?” 

“Honesty goes both ways, Malfoy.” Harry said, relishing the look of pure distaste that spread across the Slytherin’s face. It sobered Harry, how much like his father Malfoy appeared when he used that expression. 

“Then we’ve reached a dead end.” Said Malfoy. “There’s no need for more questions, Potter. We helped each other”-

-”_ I _ helped _ you _”-

-”And we needn’t say anything else to one another.” Malfoy reached into his front pocket, withdrew a shrunken piece of fabric, and restored it to its original size, revealing a simple black shirt. He did all of this non-verbally and held Harry’s gaze as he buttoned it around his pale frame. The plain green pendant Harry had noticed earlier was concealed as Malfoy fastened the shirt up to this throat. He wondered whether it bore some significance. Harry had never really pictured Malfoy wearing jewelry. Then again, he had said his mother had sent him a ‘trinket.’ The Malfoy’s could be dripping in jewels for all he knew. They could certainly afford it.

Harry was at a loss. He couldn’t tell whether he’d won or lost. He couldn’t tell whether either of them had, or even whether there had even been anything to win or lose in the first place. 

“One word of advice, Potter.” Malfoy began, “It isn’t wise to tell your enemy you think you’ve guessed their plans, because they’ll only come up with better ways to avoid you.” 

Harry slowly lowered his wand, his breath hitching in his throat as Malfoy turned to leave, tossing his mirror in the air and catching it deftly. 

“One more question,” Harry burst out. Back to him, Malfoy half turned his head. “What kind of perception charm did you use on Zacharias Smith?”

Malfoy’s shoulders bunched in a scoff. “Smith is full of it, Potter.”

Harry shrugged. “He never had much of an imagination.” 

“I can’t say the same for you.” Said Malfloy, already walking away from Harry towards the castle. “You’ve been imagining all sorts. Perception charm, indeed.” His bare feet were blue amongst the snow. Wasn’t he _ cold? _

“And don’t go blabbing about this to your little army if you know what’s good for you!” Malfoy’s last call echoed in the night as his blond head faded away into darkness, matching the snow surrounding them. 

*

Draco greatly resented the fact he’d just had more fun hiding from teachers with the bloody Chosen One than he’d had with a single one of his supposed actual friends in eons. It truly was a testament to how fucked his life was. Everything about Potter’s reaction to finding him had been priceless. True, Draco had nearly shit himself when he’d strolled from the forest half naked to find the golden boy himself standing there and only bloody _ waiting _for him, but he hadn’t seen anything important, so where was the harm? If anything, Potter was more likely to think of Malfoy as merely another headcase rather than a Death Eater at this point, which worked very well in Draco’s favour. Not that Potter would stop stalking him, of course. That much was clear from the incessant fervor in Potter’s ridiculous green eyes as he’d left him in the snow, a thousand questions hanging in the air. Truth be told, Draco felt incredible after tonight. Even just gliding through the trees had proven satisfactory to the Curse, and as a result he felt stronger for it. His limbs no longer ached. The constant headache had gone. His exhaustion had given way to a metallic buzz that mixed pleasantly with the adrenaline from a night of flying and evading teachers with his arch nemesis. 

Draco had been truthful when he’d told Potter he hadn’t known what the mirror meant, but now that he could properly inspect it he recognized the tiny initials etched into the silver rim: _ N. B _. 

Draco went straight to the Room of Requirement. Slughorn’s party was over All traces of confetti, Butterbeer and glitter long vanished as though the entire affair had never happened. He slipped inside unnoticed, pulling out the mirror and speaking to his own reflection.

“Narcissa Black…” He said clearly and then, “Mother.” 

His mother’s face appeared instantly. Draco had to refrain from wincing. She looked tired - even tireder than he had as of late.

“Oh, my boy. I knew you would understand what the mirror meant.” Said his mother. 

“Of course I understood.” Draco beamed, willing himself not to cry. Merlin, he’d missed her. No one else on this earth spoke to him like she did. Full of love. 

“How are you?” He asked, whispering despite being totally alone in the enormous maze of a room. 

She averted her gaze, red lips struggling to form words. “I… am alright.

“Mother. Be honest with me. You look exhausted.”

She gave a low laugh. “I am happy to see that you are well. Weller than I expected.” 

Draco neglected to mention his ‘wellness’ was due to transforming for far longer than he was ever allowed to at home, and that he’d just spent the past half an hour with the very boy they were trying to bring down, albeit because he’d almost been caught. 

“They’re not hurting you, are they?” He asked, noticing his mother’s haunted expression.

She shook her head. “No. But it’s hard to get a moment. Especially in the daytime. I cannot stay long.”

Draco nodded. “Mother, about Christmas”-

-”Come home.” She said quickly. She swallowed thickly. “The Dark Lord has requested your presence, Draco.” 

Draco’s heart sank like lead, and dread unfurled in his gut. 

“Did the Dark Lord say why he wants to see me?” He asked tightly.

She shook her head. “I heard it from Bella. She seemed… excited.” 

Draco grimaced. He couldn’t help himself. But he had no fear of being reprimanded by his mother. He knew she shared the same distaste for his aunt as he did. 

“Are you allowing Severus to watch over you, Draco?”

Draco tutted. “You really shouldn’t have made such a pointless agreement with him. The meddling bat won’t leave me alone for five minutes.” 

In spite of Draco’s scorn, his mother’s eyes brightened for it. “Keep him close when the time comes. He will help you. He’ll help all of us.” 

“But what about when I _ have _to be on my own, mother? Surely you don’t want him to discover me.” 

“And has he?” Asked Narcissa, raising a brow. Draco shook his head. “Then there is no need to fear as long as you are careful.” She smiled at him, searching his face. “I have to go.”

“Mother, wait a minute.” He drew in a deep breath. “The curse on the necklace… _ Aeterna Somnum _… what does it do?” 

Her face darkened. “It is the curse of eternal sleep.” At the look on his face, she continued, “Yes, I heard what happened to Miss Bell. She will survive, Draco. She didn’t touch it fully. Your conscience is clear. It was an accident.” 

Draco wanted to argue that his conscience was anything _ but _clear, but his mother was leaving. 

“I won’t fail next time.” He whispered, staring at his lap. The skin on his bare feet was cracked from the cold. He hadn’t even noticed. He was turning into a monster. He closed his eyes as his mother said,

“You could never fail me, Draco. I love you.” 

And then she was gone.

  
  



	3. Praeculo Perpetuum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for last minute changing the title! It's inspired by a song of the same name that suits this fic SO SO WELL I was shook and I was like: this is the one. So that's the reason ahahaha. It would be amazing if you could leave me some feedback/kudos! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy this next installment.

It was Christmas day, and Draco felt on the verge of collapse as Narcissa straightened his collar for him one final time. They stood in the drawing room, waiting for their visitors. Upon his return from school, Draco had felt no life within these rooms or the halls he’d run down as a child. The coming and going of the Dark Lord’s servants had steadily taken its toll on Malfoy Manor, turning it into a place infused with Dark magic - and not the kind it was used to. Old magic had roamed these corridors for centuries, but the blood spilled here was fresh. The scent of death lingered in the air, desaturating the landscape and casting an eerie fog over the grounds. His entire world was grey and black and white, from the suit he wore to his reflection in the mirror. 

“There,” Narcissa breathed with a tight smile, stepping back to admire her son. “Much better.” 

Draco was used to shirts buttoned up to his neck. He needed them to hide the pendant. But today he felt constrained by it. Like a prisoner in his own clothes. He brought his fingers to his throat, pulling fruitlessly at the stiff fabric. 

“After this, I’ll be a…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. After today he would be different. Everything would be different.

“Yes.” His mother nodded. “Your father would be”-

-”Proud?” Draco interrupted, his voice coming out harder than he’d intended. 

Narcissa looked at the floor, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You know why he needs you to do this. You know it’s safer this way.” 

Draco swallowed back the lump in his throat. “And what would you have me do, mother? Run away and hide my shame?” 

His mother’s black eyes pooled with tears. “No, my darling. Never. The Malfoys are proud. Do you understand? You are no different.”

“As long as I remain in the shadows, you mean? As long as no one ever knows.” He stepped towards her, “Mother, the Curse is getting stronger. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay here.” 

She frowned. “What do you mean, Draco?”

What _ did _ he mean? Draco wished he could answer that himself. All he knew was that suppressing the desire to transform was costing him everything. With every breath, the Curse licked the back of his throat. With every blink, it offered him a glimpse of the form he could be, flying high over trees and cliffs. It was alive and reeling inside him. He had mere days before it would transform him against his will. He could _ feel _it. He closed his eyes against the calling of his core, and when he opened them again his mother had gone pale. 

“Oh, my darling.” She breathed. He had no idea what she had seen in him in that moment, but he was quite sure it had been enough to convince her he was on the edge of breaking.

“You see, mother? I can’t”- 

The wards chimed as their visitors arrived. It was Yaxley who opened the drawing room doors, nodding for Narcissa and Draco to assert their presence in the hall. As he passed, Draco wondered when his mother had lost authority in her own home. She walked with her head bowed, shoulders slumped. So much for Malfoy pride, he thought bitterly. 

Yaxley clapped Draco on the shoulder.

“I trust all is in order?” He all but growled in Draco’s ear. 

“Yeah.” Draco replied, struggling to sound convincing. “I mean… I still have to fix it but it won’t be long.” 

Yaxley gave him a wide-toothed leer. “You’re a good’un. I always said our kids were the future, din’t I, Narcissa? You kids are what’ll make this whole thing work. You’re our fuckin’ future!”

He laughed, exuding a sharp tang of Firewhiskey. Draco tried not to cringe. 

Yaxley’s laughter died down when they entered the grand hallway. Draco instinctively held his breath at the sight of their visitors.

There he was - the Dark Lord himself, flanked by Bellatrix and Peter Pettigrew. Behind them entered Fenrir Greyback and Dolohov. Draco had always found Dolohov intensely irritating. He walked like his balls were bigger than his head. He was doing it now, strutting into the hallway and chomping on something noisily. The Dark Lord stood in the centre, his white face tipped up and his eyes shut. It was with a chilling sigh that he opened the red slits Draco found difficult to call eyes and laid them upon Draco and his mother. 

“Narcissa…” He announced, hissing on the ‘s’s. She came to stand by him, eyes aimed at the floor. He cradled her face with his long white hands, not quite touching her but probing the air around her. 

“And,” He said, sweeping past her to loom over Draco, “The star of the show.”

Draco bowed his head. “My Lord.” He said, as clearly as he could manage. The Curse bristled under the Dark Lord’s penetrative gaze, and he willed it down with all the energy he could muster.  
A hiss that did not come from Voldemort sounded from the doorway, and Draco risked a glance. Nagini slithered into view, her vivid scales flashing in the gloom. His stomach did a nauseating somersault. The snake invoked within him a very different kind of fear altogether. She rose impressively, tasting the air before finally turning her great head towards Draco. They locked eyes, and for a moment he was certain she knew. She saw the Curse. 

“Let us get more comfortable, shall we?” Said Voldemort to the whole room. Bellatrix giggled and skipped over to Draco, ruffling his hair. 

“Hello, Aunt Bella.” He said weakly, quite unable to look at her face as they filed into the living room. Her eyes were laced with tiny red veins and her hair was a wild nest tangling over her shoulders. He briefly wondered if she was on something. 

“Dracooooo!” She cooed, pushing him forward and out of the hallway. “Come, Draco, come. It’s an exciting day!”

“That it is, Bella.” The Dark Lord agreed from where he now stood in front of the fireplace, its flames turning purple as he absently swirled his wand amidst them. 

The sight of the fire kindled the Curse once more, and Draco swallowed hard.

“It is a shame your dear father couldn’t be here for this moment, Draco.” Said the Dark Lord, “But that will soon be rectified, will it not, Yaxley?” 

“Aye, My Lord.” Yaxley chimed, licking his lips. Draco stared between them. So it was true. They _ were _planning a breakout. Someone had leaked it. 

As if reading his mind, the Dark Lord said, “There is a traitor in our midst.” The whole room went silent. “I know not who, but be certain I shall weed them out and pluck them from our ranks.” 

Draco did not dare look at his mother. If the truth of the Curse was revealed, they’d be branded traitors for sure, even if they weren’t responsible for this particular crime. 

The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable time, and Bella began singing in a whisper:

_ “I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black…” _She stopped and burst into manic howls of laughter that rang throughout the room. Draco hadn’t thought it was possible for his aunt to get any crazier. Clearly he’d been wrong. 

“Come here, Draco.” Said the Dark Lord. 

Draco hesitated. _ Now? _ They were doing it _ now _? He’d known the ceremony was happening today, he’d just expected… build up. A pre warning. Maybe a dinner, or something.

No. The Dark Lord didn’t do ceremonial dinners. If you were committed to the cause, you were as good as your word. And Draco had to be as good as his word, or… He shared a look with his mother. She gave him an encouraging smile and squeezed his hand, the sincerity of which was betrayed by her glistening eyes. 

As Draco walked across the solid oak floorboards to stand in front of his master, he contemplated the actions that had brought him to this point. 

Being born.

That was it.

The Dark Lord didn’t know about the poisoned mead. He didn’t care about the necklace. He didn’t care for the methods Draco was using to complete his task. None of that had brought him here. Draco was a Malfoy, and that was enough to qualify him for this.

“Kneel.” 

Draco desperately hoped no one could see him quivering as he knelt. 

“Give me your arm.”

Draco slowly uncuffed the shirt sleeves on his left arm and rolled them up to his elbow, revealing his clean, blank forearm. He stared at it as he offered the canvas of smooth, untarnished skin to the Dark Lord. 

Voldemort snatched his wrist, long fingernails digging into Draco’s flesh. He gasped, unable to help himself, and heard low murmured laughs scatter throughout the room. He bit his tongue, daring to look into the face of the man who was about to brand him.

The Dark Lord was smiling. It was the smile from Draco’s nightmares.

He raised his wand, pressing the tip hard against his bare arm. Draco was haltingly reminded of the moment Potter had jabbed his wand into his ribs. He refocused, sure the Dark Lord would be able to sense any traitorous thoughts. 

_ “Tenebris Marcum.” _ The Dark Lord uttered, and for an incredible moment Draco thought it was over. Painless. Quick. The tip of his wand glowed crimson, then he hissed, _ “Praeculo Perpetuum.” _And a searing, blinding pain scalded Draco’s arm.

He grunted through it, squeezing his eyes shut as the large mark perforated him all at once. It felt like liquid fire seeping into the dermal layers of his skin. Burning, burning... _fire. _

_ No… not now _. 

The Curse screamed inside him, rattling inside its cage like a wild thing. The pain lasted for far longer than he’d anticipated. It was meant to, he realized. And the Dark Lord’s insane cackling died into the distance as Draco buried himself in the pain.

_ I don’t want this _, he thought, knowing it to be true. He didn’t want this, and here he was; branding himself as one of them forever.

And now he could never go back. 

As soon as the thought came, the pain went, and Draco was left hauling in breaths in an undignified heap in front of his own hearth. 

“At least he didn’t cry,” Came Dolohov’s snort, “Lucius snivelled like a little baby.” 

“And as far as I remember, Dolohov, you applied a cooling charm moments after.” 

Raucous jeers filled the room, dragging Draco back to the present. There was a hand on his forehead. His mother’s.

“Come on, Draco.” She was saying, _ begging _, “Stand up.”

He did so with her help, stumbling upright and leaning against the fireplace for support. 

The pair of them stood like that, huddled together as the rest of the Death Eaters laughed. Yaxley caught Draco’s eye and gave him an approving nod. It said _ solidarity _ . It said _ you’re one of us now _. 

Draco forced himself to look at his arm, at the mark that didn’t belong there. It was vivid black against his light skin, the snake in the skull’s mouth writhing with pleasure. He felt empty as he watched it, sensing his mother’s and the Dark Lord’s eyes on him. 

“Not even a smile.” The Dark Lord remarked, “I must ask why, Draco, do you not appreciate my gift?”

Fear quelled inside Draco as he humbled himself in front of the Dark Lord once more, kneeling by his side.

“Apologies, My Lord. I don’t know what to say.”

“This is the day of giving, is it not?” The Dark Lord addressed the entire room. “So, Draco, you shall treat this as what it is. A gift from your master, to you. Suffice to say you have not yet earned it. I hear your efforts have failed, so far. So consider this a motivation to succeed.” 

“Yes, My Lord.” Draco said obediently, hoping his heart would slow down. Blood and adrenaline rushed through every vein, clamouring in his ears. “I won’t let you down, My Lord.” 

The Dark Lord gave another of his lipless smiles, tipping Draco’s head up with a long finger placed under his chin. 

“You are a clever boy, Draco. Severus has told me much of your talent with Potions. Dumbledore” - he spat the name - “will be dead by the end of June, by your hand. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco nodded, choking out another “Yes, My Lord.” 

The Curse was filling his chest, strangling him from the inside and heating his lungs. A savage hiss sounded from Voldemort’s ankles, and Nagini slithered around him, her tongue flicking in the air.

She could taste his fear. Draco tried to drown it out with thoughts of what had just happened, fixating on the tattoo on his arm instead of the Curse’s incessant grip on his heart. 

He had to get out of here. Soon. He met his mother’s eye as the Dark Lord turned his back and made to leave. She gave him a tiny nod, and he understood what she was going to do a second before she did.

“My Lord,” Narcissa said, bowing with a more convincing grace than Draco could ever hope to achieve, “I beg you allow Draco to return to school tomorrow. He has much to complete and I fear his efforts here will be wasted.” 

Draco thought that if the Dark Lord had eyebrows, he would have raised one. He ignored Narcissa, choosing to regard Draco instead. 

“My, the boy is keen. You wish to return?”

Draco nodded sharply. His knee was hurting from staying in this position for so long.

“I must fix the Cabinet, My Lord. I think of little else.” 

The Dark Lord barked a single laugh. “Then we shall not keep you! Go, my boy. Go, and…” The Dark Lord trailed off, a horrifying expression of what Draco could only interpret as excitement dawning on his face, “But first. Bella!” He snapped his fingers. Bellatrix scarpered to his side.

“My Lord,” She bowed, practically scraping the floorboards with her nose. 

“You have a venture planned for this evening, do you not?” 

Bellatrix’s eyes gleamed with fervour. “Yes, My Lord! Yes, yes!” She began humming the tune to _ “I killed Sirius Black” _again.

“Take young Draco with you.” Said the Dark Lord with relish, “It can be his… debut.” 

If Draco had known the ‘venture’ Bellatrix had planned was an ambush on the Weasley family, he would have done everything he could to refuse. As it was, he was side-alonged with Fenrir Greyback to the cold marshes outside of the Weasley family home. 

“It’s time to teach these Blood Traitors a lesson.” The Werewolf snarled, reeking of old blood and sweat.

Draco stood alone, unable to move as the other Death Eaters marched towards the rickety house without fear.  
Was Potter here? And Granger? Who else? Perhaps the entire Order was here. What if they found him? 

“Stay back, Draco!” Bellatrix ordered, “And learn what happens to those who would smear our names with filthy blood.” 

For a while, there was silence. There was nothing but the swish of wind rocking the reeds and the freezing water of the marsh soaking Draco to his ankles. He clutched his arm, the sleeve still rolled up. The Mark burned where he touched it, and he tentatively withdrew his hand, hating himself for what had just occurred. Hating himself for displaying such cowardice in the face of his superiors. More than anything, he wanted to be with his mother. But he’d been yanked away before he’d even been able to process it. 

A burst of flame - _ more, flame! _\- filled his vision, alighting the world before diffusing into a circle of fire around the Weasley’s house. There were shouts now. Cries filled with anguish and anger following the flames. Draco tripped backwards in his haste to get away, almost falling into the water. Spells flashed. They were close. 

“I killed Sirius Black!” Bellatrix’s ecstatic singing sounded over the roar of fire. And then - 

“Come back!” 

_ Potter _.

It was unmistakably Potter’s voice. 

Draco threw himself through the reeds in the opposite direction. He couldn’t be seen. He couldn’t blow his cover - 

He collided with another body, sending both of them tumbling to the ground. He withdrew his wand, righting himself before she did. 

The woman was upright in no time, her bubblegum pink hair framing her slim face and bright eyes. 

Nymphadora Tonks. His _ cousin _. 

She stared, blinking, before her features contorted into true dislike. 

“Malfoy.” She spat. Draco moved to pull down his sleeve, but Tonks’ eyes found the mark before he could. Her mouth dropped open.

“Harry was right…”

_ “Obliviate!” _Draco yelled before Tonks could go any further. The spell struck her violently, her eyes going blank before rolling back into her head. She fell backwards into the water, unconscious. 

Draco had never performed a memory charm. He hadn’t even had a purpose in mind when he cast this one. 

“Fuck…” He muttered, rooted to the spot. Now what? Tonks wasn’t moving. Her bright hair dulled to a mousy brown, growing into the murky water. 

Should he _ do _something? She was a member of the Order. She was his enemy. But what if he’d wiped her memory clean by mistake? He hadn’t meant to. He only wanted her to forget this moment. 

Shouts echoed closer. And they didn’t belong to his aunt or the Werewolf. 

Draco bolted, leaving his cousin unconscious in the marsh.

For the first time since coming home, the Curse was quiet. And that brought no comfort to Draco at all. 

He couldn’t sleep that night. His large bed remained cold, his body refusing to heat in the wake of what he had done tonight. The image of Tonks’ eyes rolling back into her head and his own spell echoing into the silence replayed on a loop inside his head. He should be happy. He hadn’t been caught. He’d acted fast, silencing his blood-traitor cousin before she could blab his name to the enemy and ruin his plans for good. 

He tossed and turned, resolving to lie and stare at the canopy of his king-sized four poster until the dead of night had well passed. 

_ “Draco…” _

Draco shot up in bed, his insides going cold at the sound. He’d heard his name, he was sure of it. Or perhaps this was it. He’d truly lost the plot on account of all the stress. He blinked in the dark, grasping his wand from under his pillow.

_ “Lumos.” _

His bedroom was empty. He’d packed any and all childhood items away at the start of term, his ethos being that he had to leave his past behind him. An inkling of regret stirred inside him at the decision. All sense of familiarity had been stripped from the place he used to call home. All was silent and empty and still, aside from a single white curtain that floated in the breeze from his open window. 

He stopped.

His window had been closed when he’d gone to bed.

_ “Draco…” _The hiss sounded again. Unless the Dark Lord himself was hiding in his bedroom, Draco had no idea where it had come from. Was this a nightmare?

Mustering all of his courage, he jumped out of bed, turning on the spot.

“Who’s there?” He whispered. 

A cold, silken brush against his ankles filled him with unfathomable dread. He looked down to find Nagini wrapping herself around his legs. He froze, mouth agape in terror. The snake’s massive body was still slithering out of his open window, the rest of it finally dropping with a sickening _ thud _into his room. Her head came to rest against his knee. 

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t _ breathe _. 

_ “...Good Evening.” _The snake said. 

Draco didn’t understand. He wasn’t a Parselmouth like the Dark Lord or Potter, so how could he hear her? 

“N-Nagini.” He said probingly. “How can you speak to me?” 

The snake gave a juddering hiss that sounded exactly like a snigger. 

_ “It is not to you I ssspeak, but to your core. It is what connects usss.” _

Low and behold, his Curse sat comfortably inside his chest, and he realized it was translating Nagini’s words _ for _him. He was done for. 

“You can sense it. The… the Curse.” He said as Nagini tightened her body around his legs, propelling herself further up until her face was level with his. 

Draco had always found a certain affinity with snakes; summoning one in his first duel with Potter and craving one as a pet since he’d been a small child. His fucking house crest had a snake on it for crying out loud. But faced with Voldemort’s creature like this was rapidly changing his mind. 

Her yellow eyes bored into his own. 

_ “Our natures can ssspeak to each other, Draco. You sssensed it when you saw me firssst, didn’t you? Deep down, you knew… we are the sssame.” _

“W-we are?” Draco stammered. Nagini was cursed like him? Then…? “You’re _ human?” _He blurted. 

Nagini slunk delightedly around him, twisting her body until she was more comfortably resting against his shoulder. She was heavy. Drago sagged under her weight, but he was too terrified to sit down. 

_ “Our kind have exisssted since long before the mortals you and I share mealsss with, Draco.” _ Her tongue flicked the pulse on his neck. He shuddered. _ “We are neither human nor beassst… well… you aren’t. I denounced my human form yearsssssss ago…” _

“Why?” Asked Draco, lowering his wand hand. He didn’t dare put out the light. Being in total darkness with Nagini would be even more terrifying than this blood curdling closeness. 

_ “Becausssssse… it was the safessssst thing to do.” _

Draco slowly pivoted on his heel until he was facing his bed. Nagini slumped from his shoulder and slithered onto his white silken sheets, releasing him from her weight. She coiled in the blankets and gave an unmistakable sigh. 

_ “Sssssso long since I’ve been able to talk to sssomeone who wasn’t massster…” _

Draco’s breaths were coming in panicked bursts. “Nagini,” He whispered, “Will you tell him what I am? I’ll get in trouble. Please… don’t…” 

Nagini laughed again, nestling further into his sheets. She took up his whole bed she was so large. 

_ “I will not… only becaussse… I wish to sssee what you will do… I get sssooo bored…” _

Draco debated the snake’s reasons for not relaying his secret, but he was relieved nonetheless. 

“Thank you.” He breathed. “I mean, I’m sure you understand.” 

Nagini raised her head, regarding him. _ “I cannot wait for the day you are consssumed…” _

Foreboding sent a jolt through him. “Consumed?” He asked, unsure whether he actually wanted the answer. 

_ “I cannot be human again,” _ Said Nagini, _ “Even if I wished it… the sssame will happen to you if you treat your gift with sssuch… contempt.” _

“I don’t understand.” 

Nagini began to scale his bedpost, licking the gargoyle carving at its corner. 

_ “You will…” _ She said with promise, _ “Sssuch a niccce… houssse….” _With alarming speed, she slithered away from his bed and returned to the window. 

_ “Time for a midnight sssnack… Goodnight, Dragon…” _

“G-Goodnight.” He replied, marvelling at the fact he was talking to a snake. The Dark Lord’s snake, no less. She’d called him _ Dragon… _

Draco returned to bed, trying hard not to think about what had just been coiled up in his sheets. Nagini was like _ him _ ? How had it happened to her? Did the Curse run through her family as Draco’s did his? And what did she mean, ‘cons( _ ss _)umed’? The questions burned in his brain until the light of dawn. He did not sleep a wink that night, and arose before his mother had awoken, packing the little of the things he’d brought home with him to leave for school. 

He left her a note in the drawing room where Yaxley was slumped in his father’s favourite armchair, snoring loudly.

_ The next time you see me, I will have won. No more running. - D _

*

It had been two weeks since the attack, and Tonks was still in St. Mungos. The trio were quiet on their train ride back to Hogwarts. Ron was particularly pale on the journey. He’d wanted to stay and help rebuild the house. They were well on their way to restoring it by the time they’d left, but there was still much to be done. Effects of the war were steadily building, reminding them all how little time was left. Harry wondered what the point of him being the Chosen One was if he couldn’t do so much as prevent his best friend’s home from burning. He loathed that Bellatrix had goaded him into a fight. Her song still haunted him, exactly as it had since the night she’d murdered his godfather. He vowed that if no one else died, she would. 

As for Tonks, Harry had no idea who had done that to her - but they would pay. 

Thankfully, she remembered them. But almost a year’s worth of her memories had been lost. Remus had to tell her about Sirius’ death all over again. They’d been stood around her bedside, forced to watch her face crumple with grief once more as he relayed the news. Harry’s heart had rebroken watching it happen, her sobs reminders of his own. They’d left her like that, crying into Remus’ arms for a second time for the same reason. It was so unfair. So cruel. Harry hated Voldemort with a fresh, burning rage, and he had no idea what to do about it. He’d _ thought _he’d been doing something about it before the holidays, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

Memories of the night he’d spent hiding at the edge of the forest with Malfoy had distracted him all holiday. Their interaction had been confusing at the very least. And that was putting it lightly. Malfoy’s possible Death Eater status was still a huge question mark in Harry’s head. That night had made him reconsider everything despite the fact he _ knew _ he was up to something. His conversation with Snape, the little Harry had heard of it, was significant in itself. He just had to find out exactly _ how _. On top of that, he still hadn’t told Ron and Hermione what he’d been doing that night. He didn’t know how. He’d either get told off for still thinking Malfoy was a Death Eater or faced with having to explain why he’d chosen to hide their least favourite Slytherin under his invisibility cloak, and he wouldn’t know where to begin with that one. He hadn’t known why he’d done it himself. Sheer panic, was maybe the best answer, but surely letting them both get caught would have been easier, at least on his psyche. 

Dumbledore’s calling came the moment Harry set foot back in Hogwarts and he was reminded yet again how badly they needed to get hold of Slughorn’s real memory. Harry dreamt of the tampered one, of young Tom Riddle’s dead eyes and his question before it became muffled by whatever Slughorn had done to it. Then the dream more often than not morphed into something involving Malfoy at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, staring Harry down with a strange look in his eye as he said, _ “Come here, Potter” _ beckoning with open arms and his exposed torso. When Harry awoke from those dreams, the conflicting priorities within him clashed, and he always, _ always _ended up checking the map. He hadn’t laid eyes on Malfoy once yet. Not even at breakfast. The Slytherin didn’t make his first appearance until their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. Draco’s face was even more hollowed out than it had been before the start of the Christmas holidays. He must have caught Harry staring, because more than once he glanced upward, meeting Harry’s eye, before turning away without so much as a dirty look. No acknowledgement of their tryst on the night of Slughorn’s party. Harry was disappointed. He’d thought of all kinds of arguments they could’ve had about it (ones he always won) over the holidays. 

The bad news arrived on Sunday. It was the 7th of January, and there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban. 

Every single Death Eater who’d been caught, from Goyle to Avery to Lucius Malfoy, was free. 

Harry did not fail to notice Malfoy’s absence from Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts the next day. Neither did Ron and Hermione. They gave Harry a worried look, and he recognized the doubt in their expressions. 

“You see?” He whispered over his half-finished Ageing Potion, “I was right.”

“This doesn’t prove anything, Harry.” Said Hermione, “But it is…” 

“Suspicious.” Ron filled in. 

Harry wished they’d stop finishing each other’s sentences. So did Lavender apparently, because she was giving Hermione very filthy looks indeed, and they only intensified when Ron brushed her off to talk to Hermione. 

But Harry didn’t have time to linger on his best friend’s love triangle - Blaise Zabini was watching their exchange with a curious gaze. Harry deliberately made eye contact with him, and a strange expression passed across Zabini’s features. It wasn’t hostile, as Harry had expected it to be. He’d never had much interaction with the Slytherin. He’d known Zabini was part Veela for some time. Everyone did. But he’d usually just dismissed him as another of Malfoy’s cronies. 

At the end of the lesson, Zabini cornered Harry. 

“What?” Harry asked, remaining aloof. Even so, the other boy’s dark eyes enchanted him, and he realized Zabini was using his Veela powers. 

“Stop that.” Said Harry, looking away. 

To his surprise, Zabini gave him a smile. “Sorry,” He said smoothly, “Bad habit.” He coughed, “I… heard what happened at Christmas.” 

Harry scowled. “What do you mean?”

“At the Weasley’s house? I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Harry could hardly believe his ears. “Maybe you should tell Ron that. Unless you’re confessing.”

“No,” Zabini said slowly, “Not confessing. Besides, I would talk to Weasley but we’re all well aware of how free he can be with his fists.” 

Harry couldn’t argue with that logic, Ron had been known to go for punches before his wand, but he wasn’t about to agree with Zabini. 

“Was that all?” 

Zabini glanced over his shoulder. Pansy Parkinson was waiting for him, tapping her foot irritably. 

“No…” Said Zabini. He lowered his voice, “Look, the inspectors won’t find anything at Malfoy Manor.” 

Now Harry was even more confused. “Inspectors?” 

Zabini laughed. “You have to know. Your lot sent inspectors to Malfoy Manor today. I heard from my mother. I just wanted to tell you, they won’t find anything there.” 

Harry blinked at him. “I already knew they wouldn’t. I warned them.” He narrowed his eyes, “Look, are you trying to _ help _me? What is this?” 

Zabini shook his head. He gave a long exhale. 

“Potter, we’ve never been friends. I’m not under any illusions about that, but… we’re not all the same, alright? I don’t want to see anyone get hurt. I shouldn’t even be talking to you…” 

“Then don’t.” Harry said sharply. “I’ll be late for my next class.” 

He left Zabini in the corridor, his head spinning, the exchange leaving him dumbfounded. Either this was an elaborate and messy ploy by the Slytherins to disarm him or Zabini had been sincere, and he had no idea which scenario was more disturbing. 

As fate would have it, Harry received an owl from Remus that very same night. 

_ Harry, _

_ Following the Azkaban breakout, we sent a team to search Malfoy Manor and confiscate any incriminating items. The house was almost empty, I’m afraid. I have no doubt Draco’s family are hiding something, but whether the boy himself is a Death Eater is unclear. I wouldn’t bank on it if I were you, Harry, but stay alert. An attack on Hogwarts is imminent. _

_ All the best, _

_ Remus _

_ P.S Tonk is getting better. Healers say her memory might be fully restored soon. She sends her love. _

So, Zabini had known about the inspection before Harry did. He hadn’t been lying. Even so, it didn’t mean anything. Harry had told Remus the Malfoy’s would have hidden any incriminating evidence a long time ago. 

He filled Ron and Hermione in about Zabini’s odd words to him as they poured over Remus’ letter by the fire in the Common Room. 

“He’s trying to get in your head.” Said Ron, “He’s lying. Of course he wants to see people get hurt. His mum is a known criminal.” 

Hermione. “Don’t demonize her, Ron. She was promiscuous, that’s all.” 

Ron snorted. “If that’s what you want to call it.” 

Hermione pursed her lips in a very McGonagall-like fashion. 

“So?” Said Harry, “Zabini is a liar?”

Hermione hummed. “I’m not so sure… did he seem guilty?” 

“He seemed unsure… about something.” Harry told them. 

Ginny wandered over, yawning. “What’s this about Zabini?” 

“He talked to Harry today.” Said Hermione. 

Harry nodded, “He said something about… them not all being the same or something. I dunno. It was weird.” 

Ginny went red. “Oh.” She said softly. 

“What?” Asked Hermione.

Ginny sat on the floor by Harry’s armchair, absently plaiting her hair. “Well, I spoke to him…”

“What?!” Ron blurted so loud he attracted attention from the other side of the common room, “You spoke to that toad?! What did he say to you?” 

“Bloody hell, calm down.” Ginny scolded, going even redder as half of Gryffindor house tuned into their conversation. “It wasn’t much. I heard him and Malfoy muttering in the library so I told them to shut up, then after Malfoy left he asked me if I wanted help studying. He was being a smarmy git so I told him to shove it, and then we just sort of started talking. Not about anything deep. I was mostly telling him how despicable him and his lot were, to be honest.”

Harry snorted. “I imagine that went down well.” 

Ginny shrugged. “I dunno, actually. I thought I got through to him. I saw him at Slughorn’s party and he actually apologized.”

Hermione frowned. “For what?” 

“Everything, I think.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Ron muttered. 

Ginny shrugged again, averting her eyes to the fire. “I don’t know. He didn’t seem all that bad after a bit. Don’t get me wrong, the Veela thing is still really annoying and he needs to stop giving everyone the eye but I genuinely don’t think he means any real harm." She shook her head. "But what do I know?” 

Hermione had gone into analysis mode, her eyes far away. The tip of her quill was in her mouth, and she was getting ink all over her chin. 

“Hermione, you’re doing it again.” Ron said, rolling his eyes. He leant over and thumbed some of the ink off her face, only smudging it more. 

“Good thing Lavender is in the library.” Ginny breathed so only Harry could hear. 

“Okay, but don’t you think it’s strange?” Harry said, not wanting the conversation to stop here. Not when they were onto something. “I mean, Malfoy hasn’t been sitting with them for months, there’s a mass breakout at Azkaban, and suddenly Blaise Zabini apologizes to Ginny and tries to talk to me?” 

“He apologized to me before Christmas.” Ginny corrected.

“Either way. It’s strange, right?”

Hermione gave a long sigh. “As much as I hate to admit it, it is. It’s very strange indeed.” 

*

Draco vowed that for as long as he lived, he would never look at another Vanishing Cabinet again once this was over. If he failed, he wouldn’t be living for very long so perhaps the vow was redundant in this case. 

It was time to get to the bottom of this. 

Draco had been debating doing what he was about to do for months, ever since he’d got his hands on the broken Cabinet, in fact. It was risky, but he had no choice. His diagnostic spells simply weren’t enough. 

Draco took a few steps back from the Cabinet and waited before pulling out his wand, as if it might suddenly decide to tell him what was wrong with it. When it didn’t, he swished his wand in the shape of a vertical cross, just as he’d seen illustrated in his book from their private library, and said,

_ “Separatrum Centrum!” _

Amazingly, it worked. Draco had had no practice with this particular spell, but the Cabinet began to disassemble itself - first its door unhinging and floating in the air, then its walls and floor and every screw and bolt and hinge that held it together. All these pieces drifted out from its centre, revealing its magical core. 

Every magical object had a core. Like a person, it was where all its energy was kept and stored, and if there was something wrong with the core (as Draco suspected there was) then there was something wrong with the object. 

The Vanishing Cabinet’s core was light green in colour, far too light than what it should have been. It shimmered in irregular bursts of light, stuttering between pale green and occasional flashes of dark. Draco stepped towards it tentatively. It was crucial he didn’t touch it. If the magical core of the object tangled with his own there could be detrimental consequences. He carefully wrapped the core in a shield charm, isolating it from the other pieces of the Cabinet which swirled around his head in perfect formation. 

Now came the difficult part. It would drain a lot of his magical energy to probe the core and discover what was wrong. It required a firm grasp on his own magical core to do so, and he’d never had to do anything like it before. He’d read about it plenty of times, but there was a huge difference in reading about something and actually _ doing _it. 

Draco set aside his anxiety and concentrated on getting the diagnostic spells ready in his head.

He cast the first, his wand pointed shakily at the core. There was an instant repel, so he pushed harder, gritting his teeth against the resistance on his wand arm. The physical push of it was astounding, and he could see now why this was considered such advanced magic. They didn’t even teach this at NEWT level. Draco had studied independently for months for this, and it was proving extremely difficult. 

Every diagnostic charm Draco used against the core, it repelled. Even the strongest ones. After half an hour of trying the same thing over and over again, he withdrew, utterly spent. His own core simply wasn’t strong enough at the moment. He’d spent so much of his energy on repressing the Curse that he was finding it very difficult to draw on the well of power underneath it all. 

Draco had gone back to the Forbidden Forest once since his return after the holidays, and it had been much needed. But it still wasn’t enough. The Curse grew stronger and stronger every day, pushing and scraping at his core with increasing enthusiasm to get out. 

Draco rubbed his pendant in an effort to quash the demands of the curse and went back to consulting the book, unwinding the separation charm and allowing the Cabinet’s pieces to float carefully back into place. He checked it once for any misplaced parts, but found the charm had done its job perfectly. Good. Hopefully next time would be easier. 

Draco found, in fact, that the next time was not easier. Nor the next, or the next. For a week onwards he continued to push at the Cabinet’s cracked core, and for a week it resisted him. It felt like the harder he tried, the harder it repelled. He was doing the spells correctly. He checked. And Britain’s wisest Transfiguration teacher of all time on the subject surely had to have been right (but he had been a Ravenclaw, and Draco knew how reluctant Racenclaws could be to admit they were ever wrong). Even so, he tried and tried and simply could not get the Vanishing Cabinet’s core to cooperate with him. 

On the seventh night, he fell asleep in the Room of Requirement, awakening the next morning with his face scrunched into the pages. 

He was a mess. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for breakfast, and all the draining on his magical core the night before had made him ravenous. 

Draco marched down to the hall, aware of how much of a mess he looked. His robes were crumpled and his hair was unkempt, but he really couldn’t find it in himself to care. He hadn’t done much of that since returning. He had no one to impress now except the Dark Lord, and judging by the Dark Lord’s appearance he certainly had no right to judge Draco for his. 

The Great Hall was busy as ever. One glance at the Slytherin table and Draco noticed his ‘friends’ bunched around together laughing. So they weren’t missing him. Good to know. He ignored it, and carried on walking, stopping when he saw who Potter was talking to.

Katie Bell was back, and she was staring at him over Potter’s shoulder, her eyes wide with recognition. Any second now and -

Potter turned, his expression hardening as he saw Draco halted in between the tables. He debated carrying on and pretending he hadn’t seen anything at all, surely that would be the least suspicious, but he’d been stood still for too long. He was past that point. Heart thudding madly, Draco turned on his heel and strode out of the Great Hall, praying Potter wouldn’t follow him. He didn’t bother to check behind him as he legged it up the stairs, missing two at a time, and made it to the second floor where he turned a now-familiar corner and ran until his shoes splashed and the floor became slippery. The girl’s bathroom was deserted as usual. He yanked his robes off over his head and discarded them on the wet floor, burning up as the Curse asserted itself inside him. There wasn’t even a sign of Moaning Myrtle as he ran to the sink, turning on the tap and splashing cold water over his face. 

It didn’t work. Draco cried anyway, every inch of him overheating. Katie Bell _ recognized _him. He’d seen it on her face. Fuck it. He’d have to kill Dumbledore tonight. Fuck the plan. If Dumbledore was dead, maybe the wards would die with him and the Death Eaters could just flood the place, maybe - 

“Malfoy.” 

Draco spun around, clutching the sink for dear life. Potter stood there, panting (he’d actually _ run after him _?) wand out and ready. He didn’t waste any time, did he? 

Draco wiped his nose with a sniff, hoping the water from the sink disguised the tears he’d just been shedding very loudly. 

Potter’s expression did not suggest room for a diplomatic agreement. There would be no teasing. No hiding under the cloak. No dress robes to make Potter look like a different person and allow Draco to pretend he wasn’t betraying his own family by not disarming him on the spot. No. None of that today. 

Draco had all but admitted to handing Katie Bell the cursed necklace by running away. Why did he always _ do _that? Even as he’d promised his mother he wouldn’t, he still…

It was just Potter! When he looked at him like he was looking at him now; it filled Draco with the inscrutable notion that Potter knew _ exactly _what he was thinking. 

Even though he didn’t. He couldn’t possibly. 

Neither of them needed to say it. 

Before Potter could say anything else, Draco whipped out his wand and yelled, 

_ “Stupefy!” _

Right as Potter shouted,

_ “Expelliarmus!” _

The two spells ricocheted around the room, missing their targets and shattering sinks and cubicle doors as the two of them launched themselves out of the way. Draco hid behind Myrtle’s cubicle. Potter scuttled around another corner. At the first sign of movement, Draco threw another spell behind him. Potter’s followed, narrowly missing his ear. With a harsh grunt, tears still stinging his eyes, he started forward and opened his mouth to cast a _ Protego _just as Potter emerged from a cubicle and cried,

_ “Sectumsempra!” _

Draco hardly had time to register the fact that Potter had just uttered a spell he’d never heard before when it hit him squarely in the chest. 

The pain didn’t hit him straight away. No, his body was still in shock. Instead, he witnessed the first stripe of blood blossom across his clean white shirt. Then another slash appeared and another and another and Draco didn’t feel himself fall backwards. He saw the ceiling wave above him in a blur and heard Potter’s panting and scrambling as he said Draco’s name over and over, but none of it made sense. His whole body screamed with agony and the water around him had turned red… was that _ his _ blood?

The Curse grew stronger and larger. It wanted to protect him. It wanted to reveal itself and cover his body with the impenetrable armour only his other form could provide. Even now, inches away from death, Draco forced it back down. He had to think of his family; how they'd suffer if Draco's Curse was revealed... He couldn't do that to them... Had to protect...

Unconsciousness blurred his vision, the darkness threatening to wash over him completely, but Draco reached deep down into his magical core and drew from it. A last resort. The act itself was desperate, and he felt everything from him drain slowly as he struggled to stay alive.

“Draco…” Harry was saying, his bright green eyes wide and fearful above Draco, “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Was Potter _ crying _? Draco would have laughed if he could’ve. Instead, the Curse reached out a last time, and he could feel the first effects of it bubbling on his skin.

“No…” He heard himself say, his voice oh so weak, “Don’t turn.” 

The Curse obliged, but not before leaving with a steady low growl in his chest. The last thing Draco saw before what he guessed was probably his death, was Harry Potter’s startling eyes gazing, anguished, into his own. 

There were worse ways to die. 

* * *

When Draco awoke, it was night and the hospital wing was empty. Even Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight. Draco’s chest felt tight. It was bound by a layer of thick white bandages, but there was no pain. Slowly, memories of what had transpired between he and Potter unfolded in his memory, and as they did, the Curse rose to protect him. It was insistent and unyielding. This, Draco realized, had been the last straw for the Curse. It would not allow him to escape, and it pushed past his weakened boundaries with ease.

“Please…” Draco rasped, hauling himself out of bed, “Not here… take me somewhere else…” 

The Curse had already begun transforming Draco before he’d reached the doors. In his delirious state, he thought he passed one of the ghosts on the way out, but he couldn’t be sure. His exposed skin shone in the moonlight as it broke apart into scales. His back arched with the weight of the wings bursting from his shoulders and breaking through the hospital shirt. He stumbled down the front lane of the castle in full view of anyone who might be walking past, but he could not see. His sight was changing, even as he staggered blindly on. He barely made it to the forest in time before fully transforming, the cracking of his bones and stretch of his skin growing and unfolding loud in the emptiness. He was not at full size. Not yet. His Dragon form now was hardly bigger than his human form, his wings accounting for most of his mass. Immediately he felt a thousand times stronger, the bandages lying in rags by his claws. They were covered in blood, but this body would not scar. It would protect him against most spells, and it assured him of that with its strength as he spread his wings and took flight high above the trees, his mind too spent to question what his body wanted. And it was now, as he flew with complete liberation, that Draco understood what Nagini had meant.

He had been consumed by the Curse. It would not allow him to change back, even if he tried. 

And as the Forest became a patch of dark green beneath him, the mountains rolling into view over the cobalt horizon peppered with bright stars and a beckoning moon, Draco found he hardly cared. He was free.

  
  



	4. A Trojan Horse

There was blood on his hands. Blood on his clothes. It contaminated him. Sank into his pores and obscured his vision. Draco Malfoy’s blood was everywhere. Even the next morning, when Harry awoke covered in a cold sweat, he could feel Malfoy’s blood crawling all over his skin.  
And it was his fault. 

Ginny had helped Harry hide the Half-Blood Prince’s Potions book, holding Harry’s hand as he shook with the aftereffects of what had happened. He hadn’t been sad to let it go. The spell was evil. Pure evil. And nothing could ever erase the fact that Harry had used it with the intent to harm.

He’d felt the effects of Malfoy’s weak shield charm and ripped right through it. No hesitation. If this is what it meant to be the Chosen One, Harry didn’t want it. 

He didn’t bother with breakfast. He had to do something first. Something Hermione and Ron and anyone else with half a brain cell would completely disapprove of. But he had to. The guilt would eat him alive if he didn’t. 

Harry prepared himself for the hatred in Malfoy’s eyes, for the insults and taunts and whatever else might come his way. Deep down, he hoped for it. Because if Malfoy didn’t shout at him for what he’d done he had no idea _ what _he would do. Harry needed the anger. He needed it so he could apologize. But as he reached the entrance to the hospital wing, he was met with a flurry of teachers. Snape was among them, and he gave Harry a long, cold glare on his arrival. 

Harry had the decency to look away. He was about to sneak past them and enter the hospital wing, when - 

“Harry, is that you?”

Harry looked at the cluster of teachers again and blinked, spotting a tall redheaded man with a kind face and burn-scarred hands among them.

“Charlie!” Harry exclaimed, taking the young-man’s hand and shaking it. “What are you doing here?”

Charlie exchanged an apprehensive look with McGonagall who gave him a tight-lipped shake of her head. 

His expression darkened. “Oh, err - just - business, really. Haven’t injured yourself again, have you?” 

Harry rather wished he had. “No. I’m here to see someone.” He said.

“Mr. Malfoy has gone home.” Said Snape sharply from behind Harry. “I assume it is he you wished to see?” 

Harry pulled himself to full height in the shadow of Snape’s loom. 

“I wanted to apologize.” He replied icily.

Snape’s lip curled. “How… _ gallant _. Though I’m afraid his injuries were so great that he has been recommended complete bed rest. Without disruption.” 

McGonagall stepped forward, “Severus”- she began with a whisper.

“I am afraid you will have to write your well wishings to Mr. Malfoy.” He sneered at Harry’s dumbfounded silence, ignoring the Gryffindor head of house. “Or perhaps not.” 

Harry stared. He couldn’t believe this. He’d spent the whole morning preparing himself, too nervous to even eat, and Malfoy wasn’t here? Because of _ him _? He swallowed tightly, trying not to allow his thoughts to show.

“Right.” He said. “I’ll just err… go.” 

Minerva stepped in front of Harry, flustered. 

“Mr. Potter. I urge you not to stress. Please focus on your studies and put all concerns for Mr. Malfoy and yesterday’s unfortunate, uh, incident out of your mind. Can you do that?”

_ No _, Harry thought. He’d think about this until the day he saw the Slytherin’s arrogant blond head reappear in class. 

He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Professor. See you later, Charlie.”

“Later, Harry.” Charlie replied with a sympathetic wave. 

None of it made any sense. First of all, Harry had only been issued a detention the day before. He thought his actions against Malfoy warranted an immediate expulsion, if not a hearing on account of grievous bodily harm. But - he figured - Dumbledore needed him. This wouldn’t be the first time Dumbledore had evaded the law on account of Harry. Then there was the issue of why Malfoy had been sent home. Harry had seen Snape healing his wounds, however briefly. Had the cuts gone deeper? Were they enchanted to keep cutting? If not, surely Madam Pomfrey could have healed him up no problem. Harry had seen far worse stitched back up by the talented Healer. And if they were, then Malfoy should have been sent to St. Mungos, not at home in bed. 

Not a single part of this fit together. The puzzle wasn’t only incomplete, it had been jumbled up being recognition, and now other teachers were in on it too. And… Charlie Weasley. 

_ “Smith saw a Dragon.” _

Harry stopped in the middle of the corridor on his way to the Great Hall. Charlie Weasley was a Dragonkeeper. And he was visiting Hogwarts. It could be a coincidence, of course, but when did these things ever happen by chance?

He had to make sure. 

Hermione stopped Harry in the entrance of the Great Hall, her expression stern, a mountain of books piled impossibly in the crook of her arm.

“You didn’t go to see Malfoy, did you?” She started, hand on Harry’s shoulder to stop him from running away.

“He wasn’t there. He’s gone home. At least, that’s what Snape said.” 

She drew in a deep breath. “Leave him alone, Harry. Please. This will only get messier. I don’t think he’d appreciate it if you”-

-”Thanks, but where’s Ron?”

Hermione blinked. “Oh… he’s still eating.” She rolled her eyes. “You might have some competition for his attention though.”

“Lavender?”

“What do you think?”

Hermione brushed past him, huffing. Ron and Lavender’s breakfast time canoodling had clearly put her in a very sour mood. Not that Harry could blame her. When he reached the table, Ron almost had to pry Lavender off him like a limpet. 

“Just a minute, Lav,” He told her with just enough irritation in his tone that only Harry could pick up on it. He stifled a laugh as Ron straightened himself, earning him a firm kick under the table.

“You didn’t tell me Charlie was visiting.” Said Harry, piling bacon onto his plate with no intention of eating it. It would disappear once he left anyway.

Ron began packing his books into his back. He was doing last minute Potions homework. No wonder he’d hidden it from Hermione under the guise of food. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Charlie? What?” He had Ron’s full attention now. Lavender hooked her arm into this with coos of _ “Won, Won!” _

“I saw him by the Hospital Wing.” Said Harry, heart thudding as he realized his suspicions were being confirmed. 

“Are you sure, Harry? He was in Romania last I heard. He didn’t say he was coming.”

Harry shrugged. “Said it was about business.” 

“A _ minute _, Lavender! Blimey… that’s weird. I’ll owl mum tonight, see if she’s heard from him. Is he still there? Last time he brought Percy back a Dragonhide briefcase. Said it would be my turn next.” Ron grinned. “Hopefully it’s something cooler though… like boots…”

Harry clapped his best friend on the shoulder as he stood to leave. “Thanks, Ron! Bye, Lavender!”

He doubted she heard him as he sprinted out of the Great Hall. The fact that Ron didn’t even know his brother was here meant something had happened. Something urgent. And it had to do with that Dragon and Draco Malfoy. 

Harry hadn’t checked the map in over 24 hours. He hadn’t had the time nor the chance. Yesterday’s events had been… distracting. The map was locked in Harry’s bedside drawer, and he had barely five minutes to get it before Potions began. 

“Come on, come on, come on…” He muttered to himself as he pressed against the tides of students herding the corridors. He was sweating when he finally made it up to Gryffindor tower. His hands were shaking as he unlocked his drawer and pulled the map free, his eyes frantically scanning its pages until every name blurred and warped. No, Draco Malfoy was not in the castle. He flipped over to the forest. Firenze was there, alone. His name had appeared the minute he’d been appointed as Divination Professor last year. But he was the only one. Harry exhaled, all the excitement of the past ten minutes draining. Maybe Snape hadn’t been lying. Maybe Malfoy had been sent home and Charlie really was just on some official business. Maybe Harry wanted so desperately to distract himself from what he’d done that he’d resorted to fantasizing about Dragons and conspiracies. He dropped the map, sitting heavily on his bed. He was worse than Zacharias Smith. 

Harry didn’t go to Potions. He didn’t go to Transfiguration, either. Or Defence Against the Dark Arts. Instead, he sat in his room all morning and afternoon, his chest hollowed out with guilt and shame the more he convinced himself he was wrong.

Ron and Hermione were right. He was losing himself in nonsense to avoid the real shit in his life. No, the conversation between Malfoy and Snape still made no sense. But it could have meant anything. 

That was how Ron found him, lying back on his bed and staring up at the ceiling, dead-eyed. 

“Err…” Said Ron, hovering over him. “You okay, mate?” 

Harry nodded with the barest lift of his chin. Ron grimaced and threw his bag onto his own bed. 

“Did I miss much?” Harry asked distantly. 

Ron gave a snort. “Nah. Nothing you can’t catch up on. But Snape had a riot going on about the ‘facade of Gryffindor Pride’ and how ‘The Chosen One doesn’t get to choose his timetable.’ So, you know, ten points gone.” 

Harry sighed. “Right.” 

“But don’t stress over it, Harry. You’ve had a lot going on.” 

“You mean when I nearly killed Malfoy?” 

Silence.

“Harry. You didn’t.”

Harry sat up quickly, skewing his glasses. “I did, Ron! Did you know he’s been sent home because of me?” 

Ron stared at him, bewildered. Harry noticed he had half a scone in his hand. 

“Isn’t that… good though?” Said Ron hesitantly. “I mean, you were so worried he was up to something. He can’t exactly cause trouble now, can he? Probably did us all a favour if you were right.” 

“But I wasn’t!” Harry yelled, springing off the bed with more energy than he’d had all day. “I was wrong, wasn’t I? You were right! You and Hermione were fucking right, I was just - I was trying to shift everything onto him! It was easier!” 

Ron took two steps back, holding up a hand as though Harry was a wild animal that had escaped from its cage. 

“Listen, Harry. You can’t blame yourself. He’s always been a dodgy bloke, and it’s not your fault”-

-”He was crying.” Said Harry, his eyes finding the floor. “He was crying when I finally caught up with him… I didn’t even ask, or try I just… attacked.”

Harry was _ not _going to cry. He was determined on that. But the guilt consuming him from the inside made him want to scream out. He fisted his hands in his sheets as he crawled back onto his bed, feeling Ron watching him the whole time, and slammed his face into the pillow. 

After a few seconds, Ron came over and patted him lightly on the back.

“Wanna go down early for dinner?” Came the tentative request. 

“Yeah.” Harry gave a muffled reply. Eating was the last thing he wanted to do, but there was nothing else for it. He couldn’t hide up here forever. 

Harry decided over the next week that January was his least favourite month of all. The days passed unbearably slowly and the snow soon turned to sludge. Supposedly, a fresh batch was supposed to fall in February, but all they got in the first week of the new month was sleet and cold wind. He took his notes languidly, finding it almost impossible to keep focus when the shame of what he’d done ebbed at the knot in his chest. Every day Harry looked out for a flash of the blond head he’d grown so used to scowling at in lessons, and every day he was painfully reminded of why his so-called nemesis wasn’t there in the first place. Hermione seemed to be relieved at first; after all, Harry had stopped checking the map. He hadn’t taken it from his bedside drawer for almost two weeks now. But day by day he noticed a different kind of concern overlapping her relief. Harry knew he wasn’t himself. He caught himself sighing and staring off into the distance far too often than he’d have liked, and the looks Hermione and Ron were exchanging with each other became increasingly knowing. It was starting to irritate Harry. But he didn’t have the strength to call them out on it. He didn’t have the strength to do much at all, and Ginny had reprimanded him more than once for his lack of focus in Quidditch. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it. He’d used up all of his guilt on Draco Malfoy. 

* * *

They were in Transfiguration when it happened. Harry, as usual, had long since tuned out to what McGonagall had been saying and was staring out of the window. If it hadn’t been for the gasp beside him, he would have thought he was seeing things. A streak of white dashed across the horizon so quickly that he might have blinked and hallucinated, but another student’s exclaim a moment later confirmed that Harry had indeed just seen something fly across the sky. Something massive and white and quick. 

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat at the interruption. “Settle down, now”-

“Professor!” Said Eloise Midgen, “There’s a… a bird?”

“It wasn’t a bird.” Said someone else. Harry realized he hadn’t been the only one daydreaming out of the window. “It was too big to be a bird.” 

The class scrambled to the window much to McGonagall’s dismay, but when she saw what everyone else did she immediately fell silent. 

A Dragon was flying over Hogwarts. In looping dives and swirls, it flew low over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, ducking in and out of the canopy, its long silver tail swishing the branches and scaring birds into flight. They watched its movements, transfixed and terrified, as it began a path towards the castle, weaving around towers and almost brushing the greenhouses. 

Uproar broke out among the students. Harry caught Hermione’s panicked eyes and knew they were both thinking the same thing: _ A Death Eater attack? _

But why send a Dragon? And how did it get passed the wards? 

“EVERYONE QUIET!” McGonagall yelled, casting a _ Sonorus _on her voice to cut through the din. 

Everyone fell silent, momentarily looking her way. McGonagall’s sharp eyes were a storm. 

“You will all calmly make your way to your dormitories. Do not break ranks. Do not leave the castle. Do you understand?”

Murmurs of “Yes, Professor” followed her command. She directed her steely gaze at Harry, a silent warning. _ Don’t try anything, Potter. _

He wasn’t sure he could keep such a promise. But as he left the classroom amidst the push of excited and scared students, McGonagall pulled him aside. Hermione stayed with him. 

“Go to your common room, Miss Granger.” Said McGonagall.

Hermione’s lips hardened into a line. “But, Professor”-

-”It’s okay, Hermione.” Said Harry, “I’ll catch you in a minute.” 

Hermione left reluctantly. 

“Mr Potter,” McGonagall lowered her voice, “You are to go to straight to the headmaster’s office.”

Harry’s pulse quickened. “Am I in trouble?”  
“No, but he wished for your presence should a situation like this arise.” 

Confused, Harry did as he was bidden, taking the stairs two at a time to get to Dumbledore’s office. So, what? After his success in the Triwizard tournament they wanted him to defeat another Dragon? It didn’t seem likely, but it was the only conclusion Harry could come to as he ascended the lift. The doors parted into Dumbledore’s crowded office. Flitwick, Slughorn and Dumbledore gathered around his desk in deep and urgent conversation. 

“...have sent Charlie Weasley to investigate but he requires more information”-

Dumbledore cut off at Harry’s entrance. The other professor’s looked at him. He gulped. 

“Hullo, professor.” Said Harry feeling scrutinized. 

Slughorn glanced from Harry to his employer, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He had been nothing _ but _suspicious of Harry ever since he’d stupidly brought up Tom Riddle’s schoolboy days. Even the Christmas holidays hadn’t chipped his cold treatment toward Harry. 

He breezed past Harry without a word and Flitwick followed apologetically in his wake. Once the doors had shut, Harry burst out - 

“Professor, there’s a Dragon on the grounds.” 

Dumbledore did not react to this news. Harry didn’t think he would. The old wizard appeared to know everything that would happen moments before it did.

“I know, Harry.” He said softly, “And I must ask you to do something for me.” 

Harry nodded vigorously, his heart punching holes in his chest. 

Dumbledore moved behind his desk, opening a drawer and withdrawing a straight dark-handled wand. Harry blinked, the tug in his abdomen assuring him he knew whose wand it was before Dumbledore uttered a word. 

“Ten inches, Hawthorn, reasonably springy with a unicorn hair core. This wand was discovered in the Forbidden Forest a week ago and it belongs to”-

-”Malfoy.” Harry finished in a breath. 

Dumbledore raised a brow. “Yes. Harry, do you know where he is?”

“Sna - _ Professor _Snape said he’d been sent home… because of me.” 

Dumbledore’s expression darkened. “I see.” He sat down heavily in his chair, his blackened hand gripping the desk. “Mr Malfoy went missing the night of your duel. He was not seen leaving the hospital wing. I suspect you found no trace of him on your map, either, did you Harry?” 

There was no point lying about the map. “No, sir.” 

Dumbledore nodded with a sigh. “Then it is I suspected.” He replaced the wand in the drawer. Harry wished he’d got the chance to hold it. He dismissed the odd thought. 

“And what did you suspect, sir?” 

“That there is more to Draco’s position than I originally thought.” 

“P-position?” 

“Yes.” Dumbledore met Harry’s eye. “He is almost certainly a Death Eater.”

Harry caught his breath, blood turning to ice. He swayed manically between relief - the relief that he hadn’t been crazy after all - and despair, because what had Malfoy been doing in the Forest the night he’d helped him? Was it all in preparation for his escape, if that’s what this was? Had _ he _sent the Dragon to Hogwarts? 

“Then the Dragon, sir, you think he has something to do with it?” 

Dumbledore contemplated this, and as he did, Fawkes swooped down to sit on his master’s shoulder. It was a marvellous sight, Harry thought. But he also couldn’t shake the unnerving thought that Dumbledore looked so old. So worn. It was haunting. 

“That is what I wish for you to find out. We have been aware of the Dragon’s presence for some time now, Harry, but it did not encroach on the castle boundaries until today. I wish to know how it got past our wards. I charmed each and every student, staff member and governor myself to ensure they were granted passage through the wards and _ nothing _ else should be able to penetrate it. Not even an extremely advanced concealment charm could hide an intruder, let alone a Dragon. Harry, perhaps this is asking too much, but I would like for you to enter the Forest under your invisibility cloak and get a closer look at this creature, whatever it may be.”  
“You think it might… _ not _be a Dragon, sir?” Asked Harry.

“Charlie Weasley did not recognize its type. Even his international colleagues could not identify it. Perhaps it is a new kind, or perhaps it is something else entirely. It is urgent we discover the truth, Harry. Lord Voldemort will use any means necessary to gain access to Hogwarts, and if this Dragon - if that’s what it is - has found a way inside, he may be able to as well.” 

Harry nodded fervently. “I’ll go, sir. And I’ll be careful.” 

Dumbledore’s expression became sombre. “I’m sorry to use you like this, Harry. But I trust you. And I trust the cloak. It served your father very well after all.” 

Harry gave a half-smile. “Yes, well… maybe I’ll be able to put it to better use than my father, sir.”

Dumbledore’s mystical blue eyes twinkled and he set aside a smile for Fawkes who perched in regal form beside his master. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

* * *

Rather than gunning straight for the invisibility cloak, Harry’s first instinct was to check the map. He almost felt like he was regressing the moment he unfolded the crinkled parchment and scanned for the familiar name. His heart jolted when he spotted it in the Forbidden Forest. _ ‘Draco Malfoy _ .’ It was still. Unmoving. _ Waiting _, Harry’s mind provided. His mouth went dry as he quietly gathered his things so as not to disturb Seamus who was sleeping, and Dean who was doing homework at his desk. He tried to be discreet as he slipped down the staircase to the packed common room where talkings of the Dragon were in full swing. Hermione, Ron and Lavender were in their usual chairs near the fireplace, and Hermione spotted Harry right away. 

“Where were you?” She asked him as he made for the portrait. 

He swallowed. “Dumbledore’s office. I need to go back, actually.”

She frowned, but she didn’t stop him. “Is everything alright? What’s going on?” 

Usually, Harry would have confided in his best friends right away. He would have taken them with him. But he had no idea what he was dealing with, and Dumbledore had tasked this to _ him _. If he took Ron and Hermione things could get complicated. There was no way they’d fit under the cloak for starters. They might get hurt. And he might lose Dumbledore’s trust. So he lied.

“It’s about Slughorn. Dumbledore thinks this might be the perfect opportunity to get the memory, what with everyone distracted and all.” 

She relaxed her shoulders. “I see… are you sure _ now _is the best time? We might be under attack.” 

Harry shrugged, feeling each second tick by. “Dumbledore doesn’t seem to think so. See you!” He didn’t wait for Hermione to stop him. He pushed through the rest of his fellow Gryffindors and out of the common room, heading straight for the secret exit behind Gregory the Smarmy on the fifth floor. 

The wind in the forbidden tunnel seemed to breathe with him, great drafts edging him on like a pair of lungs. 

When Harry emerged into the forest, it could have been night. The trees concealed most of the dying sunlight, and the chilly February air gathered in swathes of fog at his feet. He withdrew the cloak from his bag, throwing it over himself and trying not to let his footfalls crunch too loudly as he slowly made his way in deeper. 

He was almost too tall for the cloak now, but thankfully the mist concealed his feet. Fumbling from beneath it, he retrieved the map and searched again for Malfoy’s name in the dark. It was still there. And it was close. Sitting, as if lying in wait for Harry to find him. He could do nothing but wonder if he was walking straight into a trap, yet still he walked. He was under the invisibility cloak. It was fine. 

That’s what he kept telling himself as he crept through the forest, closer and closer to Malfoy’s nametag on the map. He kept his eyes on the parchment rather than ahead of him, which turned out to be a grave mistake. 

Harry stopped dead at the sound of something… _ tearing _. His insides went cold as he became aware of the massive presence dead ahead of him. Hardly daring to look up, he didn’t risk folding the map away for fear of making a sound and alerting… the Dragon. Even the forest gloom could not disguise the glare of its silver scales and the scale of its boat-sized wings, folded neatly behind its back as it hunched over something - an animal. Dead. Ripped open.

_ The Dragon was feasting. _

Harry realized he’d wandered directly into the clearing, in full view of the Dragon should it turn around. Its back was turned to him as it tore into the poor dead deer at the foot of its long, deadly claws. Its tail swished dangerously close - long and shimmering and tipped with an arrow-shaped barb. Hands shaking, Harry glanced down at the map, refocusing. Malfoy was here. _ Right _here! Somewhere… right in front of him… but he was nowhere in sight. 

He looked at the map. 

Then back at the Dragon. 

Then at the map.

Then at the dead creature being snacked on like a Sunday lunch.

“Fuckinghell.” Harry said aloud, “It’s eaten Draco Malfoy.” 

The Dragon paused, its head snapping sharply to the side in Harry’s direction. Harry froze, the Dragon’s crystal clear grey eyes staring right through him. Bloody hell. It was _ enormous _. In the sky, the Dragon had looked elegant with its tumbling dips and loops but here, up close… it was fucking terrifying. It had only been two years since the Triwizard Tournament but he’d managed to forget how gargantuan these beasts truly were. He was almost certain this one was bigger than the Hungarian Horntail. 

Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears and he cursed himself for speaking out loud. But it was true. When the Dragon moved, so did Malfoy’s name tag. Which also meant - dread curled cold fingers around Harry’s heart - _ he was still alive in there. _The Dragon had swallowed him whole. 

Trembling, Harry quietly withdrew his wand from his back pocket. At the same time, the Dragon’s glacial eyes narrowed and it spun its body round to face Harry, crouched low along the ground. 

What spell could take out a Dragon? Better yet, what spell could split open its belly to free the prisoner inside? 

_ “S-Sectum”- _ Harry couldn’t say it. Not again. The spell’s cruel madness bubbled at his lips, flickering sparks at the tip of his wand, but even now - even when he knew it _ might _help - he couldn’t do it.

_ “Stupefy!” _He whispered as loudly as he dared. 

The jet of red light shot out from beneath the cloak and hit the Dragon square in its long, flexing neck. It bounced right off. Not a shimmering scale was harmed.

And Harry had just given away his position. 

The Dragon revealed its fangs and snarled in a rumbling growl that made the ground shake beneath Harry’s feet. 

He stumbled backwards, preparing to run, but the cloak was tangling around his knees. 

“Sod it.” He said, throwing it off. It wouldn’t help him now. 

He pivoted sharply on his heel - too sharply - and began running. He tripped a second later. Not on a root, but on the Dragon’s own tail, which swung up and lashed out, its barbed end whipping Harry directly on the back of his head. 

There was blinding pain - the hot sensation of blood trickling into his hair - and then the world went black. 

* * *

If Harry dreamt at all in his unconsciousness, it was that he was weightless. Floating above the clouds in a state between pure bliss and pure terror. And then, he began to awaken. The first thing he heard was dripping. A wet, musty smell invaded his nostrils, dragging him into wakefulness and making him suddenly conscious of his soggy clothes and the jagged surface he was lying on. It wasn’t difficult for his eyes to adjust to the light, because there wasn’t much of it. At first he thought he was looking at stars. The little blue points of light above him glistened, but then he realized it was a ceiling. And the glowing stuff he was looking at was Candentis Moss. Dredges of Potions notes blurred in his vision… _ Candentis Moss is rare and regional to the caves of Scotland, namely the caves near Hogwarts where its growth was encouraged for academic purposes… _

He was in the caves. 

The very same caves Buckbeak and Sirius had hidden away in. A pang of loss momentarily distracted Harry from his predicament until he became horribly aware that he wasn’t alone. 

The cave entrance was blocked by the same extraordinary creature that had apparently put him here. The bioluminescence of the moss did nothing to lessen the Dragon’s threatening presence. Briefly, Harry wondered how it had gotten inside the cave. It was far bigger than its entrances would allow. Perhaps there was another way in. Perhaps there were tunnels large enough to accommodate a Dragon. Perhaps Harry was still dreaming. 

The back of his head throbbed painfully as he pushed himself into a sitting position with a grunt of discomfort. His hands scraped against the rocks and the wet and the cold chilled him to his bones. 

He gave the Dragon a wary glance. It wasn’t moving. Its eyes were fixed on Harry, unyielding and bright, even in the near-darkness. The blue moss tinted the Dragon a similar colour, causing it to glow poisonously. 

“Ugh…” Harry groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “This is _ not _how I expected to die.” 

A low, short growl emitted from the cave entrance. The Dragon was snarling again. 

“What?” Harry shot back in his frustration, only processing a second later that perhaps initiating a one-sided argument with a dark magical predator wasn’t the best idea. “You’re not going to kill me right away? Is that why you brought me to your nest? Playing with your food, and all that?” 

To Harry’s amazement, the Dragon simply huffed, turning its back on him and facing the pitch black outside. 

Harry didn’t know Dragons could sound haughty. Not until now. It perplexed him. The Dragon stretched its wings and flexed them, fanning a draft into the cave. Harry shivered. The sound of its claws scraping along the stone sent him backing up against the far wall. The Dragon turned its head, watching him. 

“Did you bring me up here?” Aked Harry in a moment of madness. Unsurprisingly, the Dragon did not answer him. It turned back to the cave entrance, gazing into the night. Harry crept closer to where his map and cloak lay discarded and soaked. Thankfully he’d had the sense to cast an _ Impervius _on the parchment, so the ink remained clear and crisp. The cloak hadn’t been so lucky. To confirm what he’d seen earlier, Harry looked at the map, but Malfoy’s name wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. They were outside the wards. 

He sighed, flinging it down in frustration. 

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, where are you?” 

The Dragon startled, frightening Harry. It turned to him in a smooth spin, advancing with narrowed eyes and bared teeth. 

Harry stumbled back until his shoulders touched the wall again. Godric, his head hurt. 

The Dragon did not stop until its huge head was level with Harry’s, almost nose (muzzle?) to nose. Its hot breath washed over him and the rumble of a slow growl could be heard brewing in its chest. 

“Please.” Said Harry, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t. Eat me. I know you ate Malfoy, and I know he’s still alive. Fuck. Godric. No. Oh my god.” 

Silence answered him. Shuddering from head to toe, Harry apprehensively opened his eyes. The Dragon wasn’t growling anymore. It was staring at him. Its eyes were the sizes of serving dishes, round and clear with slit pupils. But it didn’t look as… _ mean _as it had a few seconds ago. Harry took that as a good sign. 

“I won’t hurt you.” He said in a soft tone, secretly trying to think of ways to blast the Dragon out of the way. “I-I only cast a spell before because I panicked. I’m sorry… I just want to know what you’re doing here.”

Harry felt like an idiot talking to a creature that couldn’t understand him, but it seemed to be working. The Dragon’s hand-sized nostrils flared out once more and then closed, and it lowered its eyes from Harry’s. Perhaps he’d learnt a useful thing or two from Hagrid after all. Hagrid would love this. 

“I’m an idiot.” Said Harry earnestly, releasing a long breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “Obviously not as much of an idiot as Malfoy though.”

The Dragon’s eyes flicked back up to meet his, narrowed. Was there a possibility it knew what he was saying? 

“He’s only gone and got himself eaten.” Harry muttered. “I’ll bet he cast a load of spells on you. Didn’t work though, did they? God, Hermione’s gonna kill me… If you decide not to kill me first, obviously.” 

The Dragon blinked with a set of clear eyelids. Once. Twice. It backed away slowly, giving Harry space to move away from the wall. Not that he did yet. He was still too scared to make any sudden movements. For a long moment, they held eye contact. If Dragons were anything like Hippogryphs, Harry was well and truly fucked. As it was, the Dragon gave another _ huff _sound and faced away from Harry, instead choosing to pace the length of the cave, its body low to the ground as it stretched its wings a little. The interior of the cave was rather large. Which was just as well, because so was the Dragon. He still couldn’t see any tunnels or alternate entrances or exits though. 

Harry stared at the Dragon’s belly. Malfoy was in there. In total darkness. In its _ stomach _. When had that happened? Surely he hadn’t survived in there for two whole weeks. Or maybe he had, and he was on the brink of death. The thought disturbed Harry. As the Dragon paced, Harry made a move to follow it. 

“Malfoy!” He shout-whispered. 

The Dragon stopped. Fixed him with a glare.

“Oi, Malfoy! Are you in there? Just give me a sign, alright?” 

The Dragon did not move. 

Harry didn’t either. He stared back. “I know you don’t know what I’m saying, but if you could please release Malfoy from your stomach that would be great.” 

The Dragon stared at him for an entire second before letting out a strange rattling breath and resuming its pace around the circumference of the cave. 

Okay. So that tactic was a no go. And Dragon skin was so thick and so magical that none of his spells would penetrate it either. He fingered his wand in his pocket, considering something - _ anything - _that might free Malfoy from the belly of the beast when a thought struck him:

Maybe this was part of Malfoy’s plan.

“Shit!” Harry exclaimed, stopping and shoving his hands in his hair as the epiphany came to him. “Oh shit, you’re part of it!” He pointed at the Dragon. “And he - Malfoy is _ hiding _in you! Like a Trojan Horse! To get the Death Eaters past the wards!” 

The Dragon stopped to watch Harry as he began to pace in a circle.

“Oh my god, that actually makes sense. You’re, like, some kind of distraction. A vessel to transport them - but why just Malfoy? Is he testing it?”

Fired with new resolve, Harry marched up to the Dragon. To his shock, it recoiled, backing away a slight step. 

“You get that, Malfoy? I’m onto you! I know what you’re doing… but…” Harry trailed off, realizing a major flaw in his theory. “The wards. Ah. They’d let _ you _in but not the Dragon or the Death Eaters… fuck… okay, maybe not…” 

Harry began to pace again, thinking hard. The Dragon watched him all the while as Harry came up with theory after theory, each one a little less plausible than the last. 

“When you ate Malfoy you absorbed his - his, uhhh - his _ soul essence _ and _ that’s _how you got past the wards.” 

“You’re a massive deformed bogart from Malfoy’s bad dream and that’s why his name is on the map.”

“You’re not actually a Dragon, you’re just a transfigured seagull. Surely Dumbledore wouldn’t have blocked seagulls from getting into Hogwarts, they’re hardly a threat… well, I suppose it depends who you ask… Aunt Petunia’s biggest fear is seagulls...”

Harry gave up in the end, sliding against the back wall with an exhausted sigh.

“Final theory,” He told the Dragon, defeated, “I’ve gone completely mad and this is a vivid hallucination that I’ve constructed as a coping mechanism because I can’t deal with my own stupid guilt.” 

He sat on the wet ground with his head in his hands, resenting his pounding headache. Resenting the cold. Resenting Dumbledore for sending him on this wild goose chase. But most of all, resenting himself. 

On the bright side, if he did get eaten, at least he had his wand. Then he’d be able to rescue Malfoy from _ inside _the Dragon. It sounded like a great plan on paper. But would it work in practice? There was only one way to find out. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Harry jumped up to face the Dragon. It hadn’t moved from where it sat on its haunches opposite him, watching with curious eyes. There was something beautiful about it, Harry thought as he strode forwards, there was no denying it. Its scales were dazzlingly silver with threads of hairline blue veins reflecting the Candentis Moss. It was elegant in all of its awesome, terrifying form. And Harry was about to let it eat him. He gulped, coming to a halt at its feet. 

He spread his arms wide. “Go on then. Eat me up.” 

The Dragon was still. 

“Eat me! Gobble me up! Do it!” Harry felt like an idiot. He dropped his arms in frustration. 

“Come oooooooon, useless Dragon!” Harry yelled. A hiss spurned from the Dragon’s mouth and it parted its jaws.

Uh oh. This was it. 

It bent its neck to bring its head level with Harry’s again, the slits of its eyes narrowed to vertical black lines. 

Harry gripped his wand in his pocket, thinking of all the protection charms that would shield him from the Dragon’s forearm-length curved fangs. 

The inside of the Dragon’s mouth was like a cave in itself, its purple-tinged gums packed with rows of deadly teeth in uniform formation. A glow began to shine from the back of its throat, growing brighter and brighter and then - _ hot _.

Harry gasped, throwing his arms up in a useless attempt to shield himself from being inevitably roasted.  
At the last second, however, the Dragon turned its great head and shot a plume of bright orange flame out of the cave entrance and into the night with a thundering roar. For a full second, the whole space was illuminated by the incredible fire. Rock sizzled at the cave entrance, fragments of it falling apart and crumbling away into ash. 

The Dragon directed its gaze at Harry once more as if to say: _ Still think I’m useless? _

Maybe it really was saying that.

Harry’s mouth was dry. “Can you understand me?” 

Heat radiated from the Dragon. It was still close to Harry. It blinked once. Was that a _ yes _? Just when Harry thought he was beginning to imagine things, the Dragon gave the merest of nods. 

“Christ…” Harry breathed, “You really can. Do you - uh - do you want to hurt me?” 

The Dragon made a sound like a scoff, puffing air through its nostrils and looked up towards the ceiling before giving an unmistakable shake of its head.

Harry frowned. “D-did you just _ roll your eyes at me? _ Actually, don’t answer that.” He carded a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Well, I’m fucked. How am I supposed to get out of here? I could _ accio _my broom… but I still don’t have a clue what you’re doing here. And I don’t suppose you can tell me, can you?” 

The Dragon inclined its head, blinking innocently at Harry. “I suppose a Dragon that can understand English _ and _talk would be a bit of a tall order.”

They regarded each other. And now Harry understood the Dragon really was regarding him and not just eyeing him up for a meal. Somehow this new understanding was far more disturbing than the simplicity of being eaten for dinner. It meant Dumbledore was right. It meant something truly unknowable was going on. And, as these things always go, Harry would have to be the one to get to the bottom of it. He sighed. 

“Okay, Dragon, I’m going to ask you questions, and you’ll answer by either nodding or shaking your head, alright?” 

The Dragon narrowed its eyes and gave the tiniest of nods. Perhaps it didn’t like being bossed around. Harry didn’t care. He wanted to get this sorted as quickly as possible - i.e he wanted to find out what the hell Malfoy was doing in a Dragon’s stomach. 

Harry paced, tapping his wand against his chin. The Dragon followed his movements with its huge grey eyes. 

“So, how did you get past the wards?” Silence. Harry stopped. “Oh, right. You can’t answer. Fuck, I’m tired. Uhh… you _ can _ get past the wards can’t you?”  
A firm nod.  
“Are you an animagus?” 

The Dragon shook its head with another eye roll. Harry was beginning to think this Dragon had an attitude problem. 

“Are you a spy?”  
A slight hesitation. Another head-shake.

Harry scowled. “I don’t believe you.”

The Dragon offered a short growl of indignation and shook its head harder. It was such an odd sight, Harry would have laughed if he was certain he would survive this. But any Dragon was dangerous. Even a sentient one… _ especially _a sentient one.

“Alright, alright!” He held up a hand. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it… blimey, what a nightmare. Did you break the wards?” 

Another shake.  
Harry asked every question about the wards he could possibly think of. The Dragon began to get bored. Harry could tell because it yawned after about ten minutes. The yawn itself was absolutely terrifying because suddenly he was one again faced with knife-like teeth and an open throat which might at any moment decide spew fire at him. But it didn’t. Instead it lay back on its haunches and rested its enormous head atop its claws, watching Harry boredly as he pondered question after question. 

In the end, Harry relented and sat on the cold damp floor, legs crossed and shivering. 

“Dumbledore sent me to look for you.” Harry confessed, “I’m not sure what to tell him now.”

The Dragon began to growl, low and warning. It leant forward threateningly. Harry couldn’t think what he’d said wrong.

He stood, “Woah, hold your horses. What?”  
The Dragon halted, eyes narrowed, a snarl poised. 

“Y-you know about Dumbledore?”  
Another growl.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Not a fan, clearly.”

The Dragon gave an indignant puff, inclining its head away from Harry, and that’s when it clicked.

“You… don’t want me to tell him I found you?”  
Its eyes met his. 

Harry swallowed, unease spreading in his stomach. “This isn’t going to be an easy secret to keep, especially if you go flying through the wards every five minutes.”  
The Dragon lowered its head. To Harry, it almost seemed sad. He exhaled.

“Right. I... won’t tell him.” 

The scowl disappeared from its eyes, and Harry wasn’t sure whether to be pleased about that. This was the second time this year he’d agreed to a secret he shouldn’t have. And the first had been with Malfoy of all people…

He shook his head. “I still can’t believe you ate him…” He muttered.

The Dragon gave no reply. Instead, it padded to the cave entrance, claws scraping along the rock. The ragged entrance belched steam from the cooling rock where the fire had scorched it earlier. In one slow, languid motion, the Dragon lowered its entire body and motioned to Harry with its head. 

Its stance, the way it bowed and offered its back, reminded him of Buckbeak. 

“You want me to _ climb on _?” Harry squawked, resolve dwindling at the prospect of flying on a Dragon’s back. Hippogryphs were different. They had feathers. This was just… scales. Scales and ridges. Hardly seemed comfortable, let alone safe. Then again, how else would he get back? If the Dragon had taken him up here, surely it could get him back down… if that was its plan. 

The Dragon waited, exuding another grumbling growl that sounded like an impatient sigh when Harry didn’t move. Eventually, he walked to the Dragon’s side, shadowed under its marquee-sized wing.

“How do I do this?” Asked Harry, tentatively laying a hand on the Dragon’s side. He’d expected the scales to be hard and cold. But they weren’t. They were like silk under his fingers, warm and pliable. Not at all what he expected. And they shivered under his touch, great bunches of muscle flexing beneath his hand as the Dragon positioned its body towards him to accommodate Harry as he messily clambered onto its back. And he _ swore _(although he had bumped his head very hard so he couldn’t be sure) that as he did, the Dragon shrunk. Because suddenly it was poking its head out of the cave entrance. Then its neck, and shoulders and even its wings. The freezing air hit Harry like a wall and he clung for dear life to the sharp ridges on the Dragon’s back. The sheer force of power beneath him roiled and he felt completely out of control.

“Please don’t kill me.” Harry uttered as they hung off the precipice of the mountain, so high up that he thought he might be sick. 

The Dragon gave a final growl sending vibrations roiling throughout its entire body before falling off the edge into a dive, wings spread, taking Harry with it.

  
  



	5. Promises

Nine times out of ten, darkness and light presented themselves pretty clearly to Harry - Dementors: Dark. Dumbledore: Light. Death Eaters: Dark. Hogwarts: Light. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes...Kind of both. Some were more obvious than others. But the Dragon was an enigma. It was, quite literally, very bright - with its iridescent scales and plumes of fire illuminating the night sky; it could be seen for miles. Like a beacon. But its intention? Its reason for being at Hogwarts? Why it hadn’t only _ not _ eaten Harry but flown him to safety? Well, that remained a mystery. It was completely foreign territory to Harry. Dragons were supposed to be dark magical creatures. Not morally questionable sentient beings. And even amongst all of this uncertainty, Harry couldn’t help but feel utterly exhilarated. 

He felt like he’d been through a war in one night when he woke up the next morning, limbs aching and head pounding. The first thing he’d done was hobble to the hospital wing and spun a tale of a quaffle to the head. Madam Pomfrey simply tutted and waxed her long-held grudge over quidditch being a ‘highly inappropriate sport for children’ as she waved her wand, healing Harry’s head in an instant. He cheerily waved her off and darted to breakfast, his mind already running at a million miles per minute. Pros: he knew where Malfoy was. Cons: He was in the belly of a Dragon. Pros: The Dragon wasn’t necessarily evil and may be open to a discussion on letting Malfoy go… at which point… Harry could… get him incarcerated for being a Death Eater? Cons: Harry had no idea what he was doing.

Hermione’s voice in his head told him the whole thing was far too unrealistic; that he should stop getting so distracted by Malfoy and focus on his grades. That Dumbledore would handle the rest. But what _ she _ didn’t know what that Dumbledore had set him on a task to confront a Dragon - the very same Dragon that had _ eaten Malfoy whole _ . What’s more, he’d promised not to tell. He’d promised Dumbledore and the Dragon. He was torn between two sides, and he wasn’t even sure what _ exactly _he’d even promised to. 

Before his first lesson, he went straight to Dumbledore’s office to report on the events of the evening. His insides knotted with guilt as he contemplated his lie, but he’d made a promise to the Dragon and - well, he didn’t like to imagine what might happen if he broke it. 

Ten minutes later, Dumbledore was pacing his office, plaiting and unplaiting his beard as he took in what Harry had told him. 

“And you saw _ nothing _else?” He repeated for the third time.

Harry shook his head. “No, professor.” He lied. 

“And Draco’s name was nowhere on the map?”

“No. Sorry, professor.”

Dumbledore finally stopped pacing and faced Harry, a half-smile on his lips. 

“It isn’t your fault Harry, my boy. Only I thought utilizing your knack for finding the inscrutable might provide us some answers but…” He exhaled, the lines on his face deepening as he sat down heavily. Harry shifted from foot to foot, looking anywhere but the Headmaster’s eyes. 

“What did it look like?” Asked Dumbledore.

_ Terrifying _ . _ Beautiful. _ “Bright silver, sir. With a kind of blue… _ sheen _.” 

“I believe Mister Weasley was correct in saying this is something we’ve never seen before.” Said Dumbledore solemnly. At first Harry thought he was talking about Ron until he remembered Charlie. “I won’t make you venture out again, Harry”-

-”Sir, I don’t mind.”

Dumbledore raised a brow, his blue gaze penetrative. 

Harry fumbled. “I… I want to do everything I can, sir. I mean… I can use the cloak and the map and”-

-”I don’t want to put you in any more unnecessary danger, Harry.” Dumbledore sighed, “The staff and myself will keep a close eye on the grounds and I have no doubt yourself, Miss Granger and Mr Weasley will be more than ready to interfere should the situation require it.” He peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Unless… there is something you aren’t telling me?”

Harry lowered his gaze. “No, sir.” 

He spent the afternoon in a daze, unable to think of anything but the Dragon. Last night’s flight on the Dragon’s back had been nothing like he’d ever experienced. Whereas Buckbeak soared on the wind with a steady grace, Harry felt utterly out of control on the Dragon. He felt he could have slipped off its scaly back at any moment as it hurtled through the freezing air at breakneck speed, landing in the Forbidden Forest with a crunch as it crushed the smaller trees around it. 

Without so much as waiting, it had stood up on its haunches, causing Harry to slide off its back and unceremoniously tumble to the ground. Harry had watched as the Dragon righted itself, shivering pine needles off its wings and beating them out for good measure, sending ripples of wind through the forest and almost knocking Harry off his feet again. 

In Potions, Harry glanced over at the empty seat where Malfoy should have been sitting. Instead, he was trapped inside a Dragon. The thought made Harry lurch with guilt and dread. How was he supposed to get him out? On the one hand, he’d promised the Dragon not to tell Dumbledore it was there - but only because he’d been terrified for his life. Perhaps talking to the professors about Malfoy’s predicament would be the best thing to do. After all, he was all but confirmed to be a Death Eater. Both of Harry’s wishes would be fulfilled. Draco Malfoy would be rescued _ and _captured. He couldn’t help but think of how shit that was going to be for Malfoy. One minute you’re in a Dragon’s stomach, the next you’re sitting in a cell in Azkaban. He told himself Malfoy deserved it. That he’d gotten himself in trouble in the first place and it wasn’t Harry’s responsibility to protect him from his own mistakes. Harry owed him nothing. Nothing except... an apology for slashing open his chest and almost killing him.

Fuck, this was complicated. 

At lunchtime, he checked the map again. He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t see Malfoy’s name there. So the Dragon had taken his advice and stayed out of the wards. The right thing to do would be to go straight to Dumbledore’s office and admit all he knew, but as soon as the thought occurred to him, the Dragon’s glacial glare suffused his mind’s eye with a reminder of the promise he’d made. 

So much for doing the right thing.

*

It was funny how in his human form, the thought of meat and blood and flesh in his mouth made Draco shiver with revulsion. But the thought was not the same as the feeling. His Dragon form was ravenous. _ Constantly_, it seemed. And all it craved was meat. Meat meat meat. 

After the first few days of flying freely without a care for his responsibilities and assasination mission, hunger had stricken Draco from the sky with a vengeance. He’d never had to think about eating in his Dragon form before; he’d never transformed for long enough. But now he was living as his Dragon. He _ was _his Dragon, and he had to accommodate its need for sleep and sustenance. The first unfortunate creature he’d chosen for his meal was a horse. It was the first animal he saw that was large enough to satisfy him and before he knew it he was tearing into the thing, thinking of his father’s disgusted expression had he been there to see it. Was this what Nagini had been talking about, Draco wondered? Had he truly been consumed by his Curse once and for all? 

Admittedly, he wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t entirely ready to try and transform back into his human form to find out. Every time he thought about what was waiting for him back at Hogwarts, he faltered. Sometimes he wanted to go back. He wanted to get dressed and sit in the great hall and lie in his thick, warm blankets and go home and hug his mother. But then he remembered all of the things he didn’t want to do.

Like killing Dumbledore. 

The pros and cons didn’t exactly balance each other out. 

And then there was Potter. Stupid, meddling, arrogant, trifling, idiotic, confusing Potter. 

As soon as the moronic Gryffindor had found Draco snacking on his dinner, he panicked. He hadn’t meant to knock him out, Potter had just got in his way. It wasn’t as if Draco was _ used _ to having a tail - let alone using it. The next thing he knew he’d been stuck with a choice: leave Potter here to potentially bleed out and/or spill everything he’d seen to the professors or take him up to the cave and try and figure out… _ something _. 

The plan had been shoddy at best, Draco would be the first to admit, but it was all he had. Perhaps he could work out a compromise with Potter. True, their methods of communication were limited, but it had worked before, hadn’t it? They’d managed to help each other out without blasting each other to pieces before, but as it turned out, Potter was even more idiotic than Draco had given him credit for. 

He actually thought Draco had got himself eaten by a Dragon. Well, it was the perfect alibi. And far more feasible than being a transfigured seagull. That one had been particularly offensive. He’d been convinced he’d been busted the first time Potter laid eyes on him, but apparently not. 

With great bravery comes blind stupidity. If Draco ever got to be the headmaster of Hogwarts, that’s what he’d make as the Gryffindor tagline. 

Draco would be lucky if he ever managed to change back into a human, let alone graduate. But it wasn’t time yet. 

So far, hiding out as a Dragon wasn’t proving to be as shabby as his parents would have him believe. 

He had his own cave now. It had taken four days for him to find it - the others didn’t quite cut it. Even as a Dragon, Draco prided himself in having above average standards, and the bioluminescent Candentis Moss blooming on the ceilings and walls had appealed to his more materialistic side. It was comforting, having little lights that looked like stars peppering the interior of his new home in the dark nights. He never ate in the cave. That was his one rule. He didn’t like the idea of leaving bloody corpses around. Of course, that then presented a problem in terms of discretion. He’d allowed himself to get caught by Potter, and that had yielded some rather unforeseen consequences. 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny that talking to someone had been… nice. If he could call it that. It wasn’t as if he could wholly reply to Potter. He’d never tried speaking in his Dragon voice and he wasn’t about to humiliate himself in front of the fucking Chosen One by attempting it. It didn’t feel natural to try. 

He’d been startled when Potter had understood his protests against telling Dumbledore about him, and even more taken aback when Potter had promised not to say anything. He hadn’t expected that at _ all _. He’d always had his nemesis pinned as Dumbledore’s obedient lap-dog, but… perhaps it wasn’t entirely as he’d thought. 

He didn’t like the idea of Potter being anything other than Dumbledore’s glorified lackey. It lacked convenience. He’d already suspected a streak of something _ different _about Potter the night he’d shielded him under his cloak, but he hadn’t imagined the Boy Who Lived going this far - let alone for a monster like him. 

Hmm. Maybe he was having a rebellious moment.

It was bound to pass.

Draco had no idea what he would do if he was caught. He’d lost track of the days and his bed back in his dorms felt like a memory from someone else’s life. Someone who deserved to be comfortable and warm and safe. The someone who _ wasn’t _cursed to transform into a dark creature every few months. But the real Draco had never been that someone. He’d been living a lie, shielded but condemned by his father to hide his truth in the shadows until he was either killed or he did the deed himself. How else could this possibly end? 

If he wasn’t forced to transform back, he’d be apprehended by either Dumbledore’s side or the Dark Lord’s and destroyed. 

He wasn’t _ on _a side anymore. 

He was no one.

* * *

It would have been much easier to _ remain _a no one if Potter didn’t keep bothering him. Draco was truly baffled after the third time Potter managed to find him in the forest again. He had no inkling as to how the stubborn Gryffindor kept creeping up on him like this, but he did. 

The second time, Draco had simply panicked and flown off back to his cave, leaving a half-eaten fox behind. He’d inwardly cursed himself after. What if Potter had some useful information? What if - ? Well, that was it really. He was convinced he’d lost his only opportunity to speak to him again until…

“Please don’t fly away.” 

It was the dead of night in the forbidden forest, and there he was. In the flesh. Green eyes pleading. Draco only stayed because he had nothing better to do. 

He watched as Potter revealed himself from under the cloak and gave a timid wave.

“Hullo.”

Draco snorted. It sounded like a sneeze in his Dragon form, but Potter appeared to get the message. He even _ smiled_. Merlin. 

“I didn’t tell Dumbledore.” 

_ You’re only as good as your word, Potter_, Draco thought back, wishing he could actually say it. But he seemed to be sincere. Hmm. A sincere smiling Potter wasn’t something he thought he’d ever seen directed at him. 

He sat back on his haunches, regarding Potter with all the suspicion he could muster. Potter shrank under his gaze. It was quite satisfying. 

“I really _ should _have,” Potter stressed, beginning to pace up and down at Draco’s feet, chewing his nails as he went. It really was a disgusting habit. His hands were a wreck, the nails torn down to little stubs. Whenever Draco had chewed his nails as a child his nanny had rapped his knuckles with her wand. At the time he’d hated her, now he was grateful. His hands were pristine.

He glanced down at his razor sharp claws.

His _ human _hands. 

“You have no idea how much trouble I’ll be in if they find out.”

The trouble _ he’d _be in? The audacity. Draco didn’t care how much trouble Potter got in. He yawned to make the point.

Potter made a noise of indignation. “Well, nice to see you give a shit.”

_ I don’t_, Draco thought with an inside smirk. 

Potter sat on the ground with a huff, his legs crossed and bottom lip stuck out in a pout. He looked hilarious, Draco thought. And oddly - endearing. 

_ What?! _His Dragon brain was doing him no favours at all. Being so large gave him an odd perspective on Potter. He was watching him from a great height. Anyone was bound to look more vulnerable from up here. He shrank himself down slightly. Potter noticed. 

Woops.

“There!” He said, pointing. “How did you do that? You did it in the cave too, didn’t you?” 

_ Because I’m not a real Dragon_, _ idiot. _ Draco thought with an eye roll, but Potter missed it because a moment later he was hauling an enormous tome from his bag. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Potter read a book voluntarily, let alone something this hefty. 

He began flicking through it, licking his finger and turning the pages one by one. Draco really hated it when he did that - did he really have to lick his finger for _ every page _? It was just infuriating. The more he thought about it the more he couldn’t stop watching. 

“There’s nothing on here about growing and shrinking, but I _ did _ find a breed which can put its victims into comas and preserve them for long lengths of time before eating them. Something about a - an _ “enzyme in their spit." _Ugh. Is that what you’ve done to Malfoy?”

Draco blinked. He couldn’t be serious? He was doing research on Dragons? And trying to figure out how he’d been keeping Draco (himself) alive in his stomach? 

He wasn’t sure whether to be affronted that Potter was accusing him of eating himself or flattered that he was trying to discover what had happened to him and how to free him from a predicament he wasn’t even in. This was the strangest position Draco had ever found himself faced with. 

Even so, he shook his head. Potter’s face fell marvelously. 

“Damn. I thought I was close.” He slammed the book shut with a huff. “I’ve been looking some stuff up. About Dragons and that.” He told Draco earnestly. “Wish I’d found this book during the tournament… it has everything you need to know about Hungarian Horntails. Did you know their weakness is tickling? _ Tickling! _”

_ Same_, thought Draco. It was true. He was very ticklish. Not that such information would be any good to Potter.

“If only it occurred to me to tickle it I would have got the egg a lot faster. Anyway...” Potter huffed, carding a hand through his messy hair, making it even messier. _ For crying out loud, buy a comb. _

“I know we’ve only just met but I - I really need to figure out a way to get Malfoy out of you.” 

What.

“So…” Potter stood. “I’ve tried to think of everything. At one point I even thought you might be Malfoy’s animagus or something, that’s what happened with Pettigrew after all…” 

Not far off, Draco thought. But _ what_? 

“But then I read that an animagus can’t be a magical creature, so that was off the cards. But, yeah. Basically, I need to get Malfoy back.” 

Draco was stunned. Potter was looking up at him with pleading eyes again, and it was just - so strange. Where were the glares and the spitting rage? He scowled. 

_ No. _ He thought, _ You can’t have him back because he doesn’t want to come back. _This thought manifested itself in a low growl in Draco’s chest, and it almost caused the trees to vibrate.

Potter backed away, holding up his hands. 

“I-I don’t know what you want with him, but - well, it would be great if you could… let him go.” 

Unbelievable. 

Draco stomped in a circle, frustrated, and gave his wings a short flap as if to say, _ that’s not possible you thick-headed halfwit. _

He faced Potter a moment later, expecting some kind of revelation to have befallen his unwitting companion, but no such luck. Potter was staring at him, wide eyed. 

“Um… is that a no?”

Draco huffed.

“So it’s a no.” 

The disappointment in Potter’s tone was very disconcerting. Why, exactly, was he so determined to “get him back” as he so eloquently put it? Was he sporting for another duel? Not quite satisfied with how the last one turned out? If Draco thought about it (and he didn’t have to think very hard) he could still feel each gash widening in his chest like his flesh was being freshly torn. Even in this form where he knew no such spell could touch him, he felt his muscles contract in response to the memory. 

“Can he hear me in there?” Potter asked.

Draco had no idea how to respond. So he did nothing. _ Yes, he can hear you, Potter, but not for the reason you think _. 

“I’m still trying to work out what you want. Why you’re here. How you can understand me.” 

_ Stop trying_, Draco thought. 

“I mean, you haven’t tried to hurt me. Yet.” 

Draco chose this moment to turn his head away from Potter and re-examine their surroundings. His sight was far keener in this form, and he would absolutely be able to tell if there was anyone else nearby watching them (unless there were more invisibility cloaks lying around, of course) but they were alone. Save for an owl family watching them from the tree canopy. Draco was almost level with them, even sitting down as he was. 

But he still couldn’t entirely work out _ why _Potter had sought him out alone. Where were Granger and the Weasel? 

Potter was snapping twigs in half, his brow furrowed in deep thought. Draco slid forward until he was lying on his front, his legs stretched out in front of him. 

Potter blinked, giving him a wide-eyed glance, before he burst out laughing.

_ What _was so funny?

Potter guffawed like an intellectually compromised troll. “You did that exactly like a dog.” 

Draco gaped, mortally offended.

“Just - just the way you slid down like - ! Bloody hell…” He caught his breath and clutched his side, meeting Draco’s eyes with amusement. “Sorry, it’s just - it wasn’t very intimidating. Didn’t fit your image.” 

Draco growled, but this only achieved the effect of making Potter laugh more. Thoroughly put out, Draco focused on a spot above Potter’s head, refusing to humour him.

“Oh, come on. Don’t sulk! It was funny.” Potter giggled. He _ actually _giggled. “Fuck knows I haven’t had anything to laugh about in a while.” 

Okay. Draco could relate to that. But he wasn’t about to give in. He haughtily fixed his eyes on the same point, denying Potter his acknowledgment. It wasn’t fair, of all possible humans to be stuck with when he was all alone and it had to be Potter instead of - 

It unsettled Draco that he couldn’t consider a better alternative. Gregory, maybe. But it was a close call. 

“Even Ron doesn’t make me laugh anymore.” 

Draco gave the tiniest of snorts. Had Weasel’s caveman sense of humour finally become tiresome? It had only been six years. 

“He spends all his time with Lavender. And Hermione can’t stand the sight of them together so I’m sort of just… stuck in the middle. I’ve tried to hang out with Seamus and Dean more but whenever it’s just the three of us I feel like a bit of an add-on.” 

_ Because they’ve obviously been in each other’s pants since fourth year, Potter. Anyone can see that. _Well, Draco could.

“On top of that I did something horrible.” Potter threw down the two halves of the latest twig-victim. “Part of me wants to think he deserved it, but…”

He couldn’t be talking about - ? Could he?

“I can’t stop thinking about what Sirius would have said. I don’t know if he would be disappointed in me or ashamed or - or whether he’d understand.” Potter exhaled heavily, shoulders shaking. He gave a small laugh. “I don’t know why I’m telling _ you _this.”

_ Me neither, _thought Draco. He didn’t transform and hide himself away from society to become Potter’s agony aunt. The idea alone was ludicrous. Despite himself, he wanted to hear the rest of what Potter had to say, so he inclined his head inquisitively. 

Potter held his gaze for a moment longer. “If Malfoy can hear me in there, I want him to know that I” - He dropped his eyes to the ground, “I really am sorry. I didn’t know what the spell did. I’m never using it again. I’m so sorry.” 

For once, Draco was glad he couldn’t respond. He had no idea what he would possibly say. 

*

“Harry? Are you alright?” 

Harry was staring at a pile of treacle fudge, thinking absently that he should bring some for the Dragon and feed it to it so that Malfoy would have something to eat in its stomach when Hermione thwacked him on the arm.

“Ow!”

She gave him an incredulous look. “That’s the fifth time you’ve - you’ve _ gone away _like that all day. What’s wrong?” 

He rubbed his arm, but muttered a sheepish, “Sorry, ‘Mione” all the same. This was supposed to be _ their _day. When Lavender had dragged Ron into the library for ‘study’ instead of going to Hogsmeade with them, Harry had vowed he’d try and distract her from the incident by taking her instead. He’d evaded Ginny’s demands for an early practice (the upcoming match was the last thing on his mind) and dragged Hermione out with him instead of allowing her to sit by the fire furiously scribbling her Astrology essay. 

So here they were. And he wasn’t exactly doing what he’d promised. 

But instead of being angry, Hermione’s expression softened and she hooked her arm through his. 

“It’s alright, Harry. Come on, let’s go for a walk.” 

“I might get some, err, fudge first.”

She frowned. “I thought you didn’t like fudge?” 

To his horror, he felt his face turning red. “Um. It’s for someone else.” 

A sly smile crept onto her face. “Oh?” 

Oh, Godric. “It’s not what you think.” 

“It isn’t?” She raised a brow. “Harry, I haven’t forgotten it’s Valentine’s day next week.”

He had. “H-Hermione, no”-

She shook her head, putting a finger over his mouth. “Oh, Harry. Don’t worry, you don’t have to say anything, but” she winked, “I _ think _I might know who this is for. Go on, buy it.” 

Absolutely mortified, Harry strode to the counter with his head down, forking out six sickles for a large bag of treacle fudge. He figured Hermione be much less encouraging if she knew who it was really for. 

Determined not to look her in the eye until she’d decided to move on from the topic of Valentine’s Day and Harry’s potential bow, they ventured out into Hogsmeade, arm in arm. 

“I can’t wait for Spring.” Hermione sighed. 

Harry dragged his feet. “Yeah.” He hummed. “I don’t know. The more time passes, the more I feel…”

“What?” 

“Like everything is about to change.” 

Hermione looked at him. “I know. And it will. But we’ll be ready.” 

He thought of Dumbledore pacing his office with his diseased hand, the palpable tension amongst the staff, the mystery of the Dragon and the secrets he’d promised to keep and couldn’t help but think he was anything _ but _ready. 

Ginny was not happy with Harry when he turned up to practice the next morning.

“Harry, the match is in a week! You’re supposed to be our Captain!” 

He kept his voice low. “Ginny, everyone is watching…”

“I don’t care!” She shouted even louder, causing a few sniggers to run through the team at Harry’s expense. Ron shook his head. “Get your act together, Potter, we’ve got a winning streak going and we can’t afford to start slacking now.” 

Feeling thoroughly rinsed out, Harry made a conscious effort to concentrate on practice. Once the match was over, he’d go and see the Dragon again and figure out a way to free Malfoy. It was fine. It would all be fine. 

Harry told himself that everything was fine until Monday, when Ron was poisoned. 

*

Draco was getting used to expecting Potter to turn up in the forest - he still had no idea how he was finding him, but he was getting used to it. He did _ not _expect Potter to fly up to his cave on a broomstick and ambush him while he was sleeping. If he could call a relatively short wizard with messy hair shouting at a Dragon the size of a cabin lodge ambushing. 

Potter’s eyes were wilder than his hair, searing into Draco’s with a force that was not to be reckoned with. He flung his broom down and strode over without a pause. 

“This is it!” He yelled, “I’m fucking done, I need Malfoy back now!” 

For an awful moment, he was sure Potter was going to start crying. But it was just the rage. His eyes were glistening with it. 

Draco didn’t know what to do. He sat up and stood his ground, giving Potter as much of a ‘_ what the fuck is going on?’ _look as he could muster. 

Potter’s chest heaved. Whether due to exhaustion from flying or emotion, Draco couldn’t tell. 

Potter kicked the cave wall. 

Emotion, then. 

“This has to end… it has to…” He said to no one in particular.

Draco made a noise. Something close to a querying growl, he hoped. 

“Malfoy nearly killed my best friend. I have to… to get him.” 

Draco’s heart dropped to his stomach. A thousand possibilities ran through his mind, but the first terrible explanation that presented itself was the mead. The mead he’d given to Madam Rosmerta months ago and now -

“Slughorn gave us some - some mead he’d got as a present or something, and it was poison. He was going to give it to Dumbledore.” Potter slumped down to the ground, his head in his hands. “If I hadn’t been there, I - Ron would have died.” 

Draco was frozen with shock. On the one hand he was almost relieved his backup plan to kill Dumbledore had failed. So he wasn’t a killer. But he’d caused this. Potter’s pain disturbed him. He couldn’t explain why. Perhaps because the rage had dissipated. Draco had never seen Potter like this. Even when Diggory died, that had been amongst chaos and confusion. He’d heard Potter’s cries but this quiet anguish was somehow worse. Especially knowing it was caused by him. 

Potter’s hands clenched into fists and his expression hardened. 

“I tried to tell them it was Malfoy who did it, but no one would believe me. Not even Dumbledore... he set this up. I know he did.” 

_ But he wishes he hadn’t. He didn’t have a choice, _Draco wished he could say.

“I hate him.” Potter said so quietly Draco wouldn’t have heard him if his Dragon senses weren’t attuned to pick up every sound. “I’ve never hated someone so much.” 

* * *

  
Draco did not sleep well that night. The Candentis Moss did nothing to calm him and he felt like millions of termites were crawling beneath his skin. It was exactly like the feeling he got in his human form when the Curse was becoming insistent, so he couldn’t understand why it was happening now. He didn’t get it. He couldn’t give a flying fuck about Weasley, but knowing he’d caused all of this to happen... It didn’t sit well. Not at all. The look of pure derision in Potter’s eyes when he’d talked about him haunted the back of his eyelids every time he tried to lie down and sleep. 

Only the other day, Potter had been going on about wanting to apologise for nearly ripping him open, but now he looked as though he would do it all over again.

Draco wouldn’t blame him. He probably deserved it. 

Okay, he definitely deserved it. 

He stalked his cave in circles, trying to rid the pins and needles sensation off his back and his wings. It was incessant. He felt sick. He paced until thin beams of wan sunlight revealed a grey, gloomy sky outside. 

Maybe he should fly away. Somewhere far. Another country. Iceland, maybe. Or Greenland. Somewhere where no one could ever bother him again. 

A noise outside the cave made Draco stop pacing. Sometimes small creatures or birds found refuge here. A tiny part of him hoped Potter was coming back. 

Someone coughed. It sounded like a man.

_ Fuck. _

Draco shrunk himself down until he was almost person-sized and hid in the shadows. Fat lot of good hiding here would do. He was almost as luminous as the moss in this form, and the moss only glowed at night so he stuck out rather obviously. Why couldn’t the Curse have made his scales darker? He’d always wondered if it was because he was blond. 

A grunt sounded from the cave entrance. Perhaps an idiotic muggle was doing some morning hiking up the mountain side. Draco considered how hungry he was, and how it was unlikely anyone would miss this stupid stranger. Then he considered the fact that eating a man, muggle or not, would make him a cannibal and immediately lost his appetite. 

As it happened, seconds later a ginger head appeared.

Had Weasley come to get his revenge? Draco braced himself before he remembered he was in his Dragon form and Potter’s dull best friend couldn’t possibly have guessed his darkest secret. So, what…?

It wasn’t Ron Weasley, but another red-head.  
Draco didn’t recognize him at first. His stocky frame was silhouetted in the cave entrance against the backdrop of the white sky, but as he ventured inward, Draco caught a good glimpse from his rubbish hiding spot. He was older than his siblings and covered in scratches and burns. This must be Charlie. Draco remembered him from the tournament when he’d been brought in to handle the Dragons. 

He huffed and brushed off his knees as he entered the cave, peering around. He hadn’t seen Draco yet, that was evident by his casual stance as he took in his surroundings.

Perhaps if he stayed very still -

“Merlin, there you are.” 

Nevermind. 

Draco locked eyes with Weasley and fixed him with a warning glare. To his disbelief, the other man gave an awe-filled laugh. 

“Well, shit. I was about ready to give up. I’ve climbed every stinking cave in Scotland looking for you.” Said Charlie. 

Draco didn’t move. 

Charlie was being very smart, because he didn’t come any closer. He squinted in the gloom. 

“You’re much smaller than the other one, aren’t you?” 

Draco didn’t like being talked to like a five year old, so he advanced, making a point of growing in size as he did. Charlie’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Draco would be lying if he said his reaction wasn’t a bit satisfying. 

He saw the man visibly gulp and clutch his wand to his chest. 

“Or… maybe you’re the same one.” He said, voice trembling as he gazed up at Draco.  
_ Damn well right, I am_. 

Charlie’s expression morphed back into one of amazement. 

“You are _ beautiful_.” 

Draco couldn’t help but laugh. It came out as an unfortunate stuttery growl. He was certain Charlie wouldn’t be saying that if he knew who he really was. 

Draco realized too late he wasn’t being scary enough. Real Dragons didn’t act like this. He tried to make his expression more fierce, but the snarl only seemed to spurr Charlie on. He began to pace around Draco, taking in his whole appearance. 

“You are just… incredible.” He was saying, “I wonder where you’re from. The bureau is going to love you.” What was _ wrong _with this man?

Draco gave another warning snarl and Charlie barely backed away two paces, placing his hands on his hips and surveying him as though he were a new house. 

“Never in my life did I think I would be one to discover a new species. I’ve dreamt of this since I was a kid. And that growing and shrinking thing you do… extraordinary.” 

Draco was so distracted by Charlie’s gentle admiration that he’d almost failed to notice the man discreetly pulling a vial of clear potion from his robes. He tensed, and heat began to spread from his chest towards his throat.

No. He couldn’t hurt Charlie Weasley. He wouldn’t. But he couldn’t be caught either. 

Charlie’s kind eyes darkened. 

“Come on now. Be a good Dragon… this will be much easier if you cooperate.” 

Draco was sure Charlie had gone through countless hours of training on how to talk to a Dragon, but the poor man had no idea his expert soothing tone would never work on him.

Draco let some of the smoke hiss out from between his teeth as if to say, _ Go now! Go! _Any sane person would have apparated the fuck out of there. But as Draco was swiftly learning, Charlie wasn’t sane. 

He held up both his scarred hands, the tiny vial tucked between his thumb and forefinger. “Now, now. It’s alright. You’re just going to have a little sleep and then we’ll be well on our way”-

Fuck that.

Draco wasted no time shrinking down as small as he could and launching himself past Charlie at lightning speed toward the cave entrance. But he wasn’t quite fast enough.

_ “Incarcerous Maximus!” _

Draco’s hind legs and tail became tangled in thick cords as he hurtled into the crisp morning air. He was plummeting fast, spinning in a whirr towards the hard, jagged ground. He grew, but the cords didn’t snap. They squeezed him tighter.

Without the use of his tail, Draco had no balance. He flapped his wings as hard as he could, propelling himself up into the air, but it was chaos. He felt his back scrape painfully along the side of the mountain before he bounced off, heading in what he hoped was the direction of the forest. 

The pain in his legs and his tail was almost blinding. He shrunk and he grew but whatever binding spell Charlie had thrown at him had been a strong one. The cords felt like they were inlaid with metal. 

Draco felt himself break through the wards. But he wasn’t over the forest. He was over the grounds, heading straight for the Quidditch Pitch. 

Draco barely had time to glimpse the full stands and souring red and blue figures on broomsticks before he crashed into the dirt.

The screams of the students around him muted into white noise. His legs and tail were a tangled mess. His blood soaked into the tight, knotted cords. The harder he fought against them, the more they dug deeper into his flesh, ripping his scales. 

There was only one thing for it.

  
  



	6. Burns

Everything happened so fast. One minute Harry had his eye on the snitch (it was hovering next to Cho Chang’s ankle) and was heading straight for it, the next, the stands erupted into screams. At first, Harry had thought someone had scored a point. Then he had the awful mental image of Voldemort descending on the pitch on a dark cloud. Then he’d had the sense to stop in mid air and actually look at what was happening seconds before the Dragon - _ his Dragon - _crashed headfirst into the ground below him. 

It was struggling, snarling wildly and beating its wings hard against the ground, sending bunches of grass and sand and soil high into the air. 

The teachers were shouting, lifting their wands and pointing at it, and Harry had no idea what he was doing.

“STOP!” He yelled, flying down towards the Dragon without a single thought. 

That was a mistake. 

A great plume of white hot flame set the world alight, and Harry almost flew directly into it. He faltered, shielding his face from the incredible light and heat. He didn’t understand. Why was it attacking? Was this a set up after all? Harry was convinced he must have made the greatest mistake of his life in making a deal with the Dragon until he saw what it was really doing.

It was burning _ itself_. 

“DRAGON! STOP!” Harry cried above the roar of flame. His voice was lost to it, and he caught Dumbledore’s panicked blue eyes from across the stands before the fire began to die. 

The pitch had been turned into a crater. The Dragon’s screams and roars of agony cut through the fearful shouts of the students, and Harry saw with horror the charred mess around its legs and tail. Thick stripes cut through its iridescent scales, mottled with scarlet blood and ash. It had burned its restraints off itself. 

Harry landed on the still-sizzling ground, casting an _ Aguamenti _before he burned himself too. The Dragon had become larger than Harry had ever seen it, its bent tail thrashing against the furthest stand. Its moonstone grey eyes were shut tight, flicking open with a start as Harry directed the gush of water onto its smoking legs. 

The Dragon’s wide eyes found him. 

“Dragon,” Said Harry, unsure if it could hear him. “You need to get out of here.”

What was he _ doing_? This could be his one chance to get Malfoy for good - the bastard was still inside the Dragon after all - but at the moment all he knew was that he didn’t want to hear the Dragon screaming again. 

The other professors were running onto the pitch, wands held high.

“Harry!” McGonagall yelled. “Get away from that Dragon!” 

Snape brandished his wand, throwing a red bolt of light at the Dragon. It bounced off without a scratch. 

“We must catch it!” He thundered, his black eyes intense with pure wrath. 

Harry shared one last look with the Dragon. “Go!” He told it. 

_ “Incarc”- _

The Dragon threw back its head and shot another tower of white hot flame into the sky, causing them all to momentarily cover their faces. 

Harry felt the ground shake as it kicked off with its shredded legs and flew up into the fire, wafting huge waves of smoke onto the pitch as it soared away towards the Forbidden Forest. 

Harry heard Snape’s shouts before the smoke cleared. He felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped, but it was just Ginny, the rest of the team landing a safe distance away. Cho Chang was staring at Harry like she was wondering how she’d ever been so insane to go out with him. 

“Harry, what the fuck?” Ginny shout-whispered, black motes of smoke clinging to her red hair and pale skin. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

It was only now dawning on Harry how strange this must have looked to everyone. 

“It’s okay, Ginny. I’ll explain”-

“POTTER!” 

Uh oh. Snape rounded on him, emerging from the smoke and looking more like a bat out of hell than ever. 

The head of Slytherin grabbed Harry by his collar, shaking him.

“Do you have _ any _idea what you’ve done?” He hissed, “Your idiotic meddling could have meant the death of a student, you”-! 

“Severus, let go of the boy.” Dumbledore said calmly, clearing the rest of the ashy fog with an elegant wave of his wand. 

Snape released Harry with a shove. He stumbled backwards, coughing. He was more afraid of Dumbledore than anyone. He’d been actively lying to him ever since he’d first met the Dragon. As if reading his thoughts, Dumbledore raised a brow.

“But I would like to know why you prevented us from restraining the Dragon, Harry?” 

Harry bowed his head. There was no point in lying. “It’s a long story, sir.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt it is. Come. My office.” 

* * *

When Harry had finished telling Dumbledore everything - the cave, his deal with the Dragon, his theory that Malfoy was stuck in its stomach - the old headmaster leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. He hadn’t said a word throughout, simply listened and occasionally fed Fawkes from a small pile of crushed Sherbert Lemons in the palm of his healthy hand. 

“I suppose…” Dumbledore began slowly, “this in some way explains the disappearance of Mr. Malfoy.” 

“In _ some way_, sir?” 

Dumbledore tapped the mahogany desk with a single black finger. 

“Harry, I don’t believe he was eaten by the Dragon.” 

Harry’s head was a mess. What could Dumbledore possibly mean? If he wasn’t eaten, then how was he showing up on the map? There was no other explanation. 

“Sir”-

A frantic knock on the door interrupted Harry. Charlie Weasley burst in, his face alight with horror.

“Professor Dumbledore,” He panted, sweating, “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” 

Dumbledore rose from his seat and approached the shivering man, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Charlie, my boy, have a seat.” 

Charlie sat down on the wooden step where he stood, his eyes far away as he struggled to form words.

“Did anyone - ? Was anyone hurt?” 

Dumbledore gave him a small smile. “Miraculously, no. I think the Dragon was the most hurt out of all of us.” 

“Oh, Godric…” Charlie put his head in his hands, shaking it. “I’ll lose my career over this.”

Dumbledore exchanged a brief look with Harry. “Charlie, where are the rest of your team?”

“They were at the match! The Dragon had flown off again and scorched half the pitch before they could get in and do a bloody thing.” Charlie coughed, turning red. “Sorry, professor. ‘Scuse my language. I was supposed to wait for them, but I got um… carried away. Thought I could just check out a few more caves on my own. I honestly didn’t think I’d find him.” He sighed, “But that’s not why I’ll be in trouble. I mean it’s bad, but not the worst. We’re never meant to use force on the Dragons like that, not unless it’s an emergency. But he was getting away and I - I panicked. I just panicked.” 

“You used an _ Incarcerous_.” Said Dumbledore. 

Charlie nodded, hauling in deep breaths. Harry wanted to feel bad for Charlie, but he couldn’t help the niggling resentment that crept up all the same. An _ Incarcerous_? Really? Harry would be the first to admit that the Dragon was terrifying, but it was also understanding. To an extent. He hadn’t needed to restrain it to figure that much out. Nevertheless, he bit his tongue. He wasn’t sure it would help Charlie’s spirits to discover Harry had had more success conversing with an undiscovered breed of Dragon than Charlie would have in his entire career. 

“I found him in a cave in the mountains not far from here.” Charlie said at length, “He was scarily intelligent, Professor. I think he knew what I was going to do.” 

“How do you know it’s a ‘he’?” Harry blurted. 

Charlie looked at him, blinking. Harry realized he’d only just noticed him sitting there. 

“Oh, um… the shape of his scales were peaked, not rounded. Males also have longer tails than their female counterparts. Those are the tell-tale signs, but… this is a whole other breed, so I’m just assuming.” 

Harry’s mouth went dry. So it _ was _a male Dragon. Made sense. He wasn’t sure why, but it did. 

“Did it speak to you?” 

Charlie spluttered. “Excuse me?” 

The poor man was still in shock, but Harry couldn’t help it. “It - I mean _ he _\- can understand human language and communicate back. With nods and stuff. And eye rolls. He does a lot of eye rolls.” 

Charlie looked at Dumbledore, then back at Harry as if trying to work out whether all of this was a joke or whether Harry had hit his head very hard. 

“I’ve just realized I’m too sober for this.” Charlie sighed, at which Dumbledore gave a sharp laugh and clapped him on the back. 

“Firewhiskey can certainly be arranged.” He said, conjuring an unassuming glass on a small tray filled with what Harry guessed must be Firewhiskey, for a moment later Charlie was downing it. He grimaced at the taste, but his eyes were brighter.

“That hit the spot.” He stood and briskly shook Dumbledore’s hand. “Right. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to do. If I don’t make an absolute meal out of this maybe I’ll get to keep my job. All the best, Professor. Harry, stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll try.” Harry lied.

Charlie all but ran to the door, stopping to let someone else inside. “Oh. Hello. Pardon me.”

A woman entered after him, her high cheekbones stark and pale, red lips perfectly painted and eyes pools of grey - identical to her son’s. 

Narcissa Malfoy.

Harry wished he had a shot of Firewhiskey of his own. 

*

Through painful flying and stumbling, Draco made it to the deepest edge of the Forbidden Forest. He wasn’t even sure if the Centaurs came this far. Even at noon, the world was utterly dark down here. Eternal night. He couldn’t go back to his cave. Not with his injuries. Not with dangerous Weasleys sniffing about. 

Excellent. 

He’d exposed himself to the entire school and got himself hurt. Thankfully he was fireproof. Mostly. So burning off the cords hadn’t been amongst his worst ideas, but it hadn’t done anything to soothe his injuries. Where the scales had been rubbed off, swollen bleeding welts were left in their place, aggravated by the burns he’d given himself. 

Today was marking itself as a particularly trying one. A stream nearby running with grey, misty water was all Draco had to treat his injuries. He had no idea what kind of creatures or enchantments could be swimming down the ominous trickle of water, but he really didn’t care. The chilly water instantly calmed the searing on his legs. 

His tail, however, wasn’t faring so well. Every time he tried to bend it, a jolt of searing pain lanced through it from tip to root. It was broken. Right in the middle. 

His flying would be off for a while until it healed.

He wondered what would happen if he transformed back into his human form. Would he have a broken leg or arm? Would the injuries manifest themselves on his legs and back too, or would he heal and be able to transform again, fresh and free of wounds? The last time he’d been human he’d been split open from the chest so maybe now wasn’t the best time to test that theory. 

Draco knew for certain now he could turn back into his human form. He felt how much his body longed for it, the rush of pins and needles under his scales begging to transform but - 

He couldn’t. 

He just couldn’t. 

If he did, everything would change again. The illusion would be broken. And Potter would hate him again. 

Draco had been trying not to think about how much the idea of Potter spitting with rage at the sight of him had been playing on his mind differently recently. After all, he hated Potter too. Didn’t he? 

Potter had just tried to protect him from none other than his beloved teachers. He’d told Draco to flee. Well, he’d called him ‘Dragon’ but… it still shocked him. 

Shocked was an understatement. 

Draco wasn’t sure what was worse, the pain from the cords and burns he’d inflicted on himself or thinking about what would happen if Potter ever found out he was the Dragon. 

Fuck this, he thought, smashing his head into the stream and drinking deeply, ignoring the concerning taste of metal and algae. As soon as he was healed he’d sneak back into his house, kidnap his own mother and fly them both to sodding Greenland. 

As for his father? Well. He could stay in Azkaban for now. Draco wasn’t equipped for that sort of break-out just yet. 

*

The office had descended into chaos. They’d only had moments to share a stony, awkward silence with Narcissa Malfoy. Harry had glared at her, only restraining from shouting curses on behalf of his dead godfather because of the warning glance Dumbledore had given him. But Narcissa had barely even looked in his direction. Her leather-gloved hands were curled into fists at her side as she held her chin aloft and levelled with Dumbledore.

“I”- was all she’d had time to say before Snape, McGonagall and half a dozen other teachers burst into the room, followed by Charlie’s team of Dragon-Keepers, Madam Pomfrey (who hovered over Harry, checking him for cuts and bruises and burns before flitting straight back out again without a word) and finally, Hermione. 

Snape and McGonagall appeared to be in heated debate.

“Severus, I’m not saying we should let it go, I am simply asking for some propriety”-

-”Propriety, indeed! You speak of propriety when you let that - that _ boy _roam free with no regard for the other students”-

Harry was getting a headache. Hermione rushed to his side, engulfing him in a tight hug before holding him at arm’s length. 

“Harry.” She said in a breath, her face creased with worry, “You’re going to tell me what’s been going on. Now” 

Harry pried her off. “I will - I will, Hermione, I’m sorry it’s just maybe now isn’t the right time.” 

They looked in the direction of the cluster of frantic adults. “Yes, maybe not.” Hermione agreed. 

Harry was worried about the Dragon. He had to get to his map as soon as possible.

“Let’s go.” He whispered to Hermione, “It’s not like they’ll notice us leaving at this point anyway.” 

They slipped past the huddle of Professors, keeping their heads bowed low. Once they were out of the office, they broke into a sprint, heading straight for the hospital wing. The area surrounding Ron’s sick-bed had become a hybrid between Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and Honeydukes gifts. Chocolate Frog packages littered the floor around his bedside table and even as Hermione and Harry rounded the corner, he was opening a new one. With each day that passed, more colour flushed Ron’s cheeks. Harry was certain he’d already fully recovered - he was just taking the opportunity to skive a few more days off. 

“Hi guys.” He waved, offering them each a Chocolate Frog. “Wha’s going on?” 

Harry gave Hermione a look. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Asked Ron, sitting up higher. 

Hermione gave a long sigh. “Sorry, Harry, I was just making sure you weren’t dead.” She sniped.

“Why would Harry be dead?”

“Oh, come on Hermione I didn’t do anything that”-

“Heelloooo!” Ron cooed over them, rolling his eyes. “I’m still right here - no clue what’s going on - very confused. Explain.” He looked Harry up and down. “Oh, how was the game by the way, mate?”

“Sort of got interrupted.” Said Harry.

Hermione crossed her arms. “By a Dragon. _ The _Dragon.” 

Ron’s eyes went wide and he lunged forward, sending more sweet packages flying with a crunch. 

“The big white fucker? Shit… can’t believe I missed that! I’m missing everything!” He huffed, before doing a double-take, “Why do I have a horrible feeling you did something stupid, Harry?” 

His friends knew him too well. “Um. Well, I - I talked to it.”

Ron blinked, gaze sliding over to Hermione for an explanation, but she was as blank as he was. 

“You did _ what_?” She whispered, “I thought you were just trying to - to”-

-”Fight it?” Harry finished for her. “Yeah, I figured you might come to that conclusion.” 

He took a seat by Ron’s bedside, avoiding their bewildered tracking gaze. 

“I was going to tell you. I really was. But I promised him - the Dragon - I wouldn’t.” He tried, wringing his hands in his lap. 

“Y-you promised the _ Dragon_?” Ron asked, hushed. 

Harry nodded. “Also I’m pretty sure it ate Malfoy. I’ve been trying to persuade it to let him go but no luck so far.” 

Hermione slowly sank down onto Ron’s bed, gripping his wrist tightly. Ron was staring at it, momentarily distracted. 

As the pair took in what Harry was saying, he launched into a full and frank explanation, the same way he had with Dumbledore. He wasn’t sure what he expected - maybe for them to be furious at him for not including them from the start, but it certainly wasn’t what Hermione said next.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.” She chewed her lip, avoiding his gaze as she always did when she felt guilty.

Now it was Harry’s turn to be bewildered. “W-why? You didn’t do anything”-

“Exactly,” Ron interrupted solemnly, “We knew something was up and we didn’t do anything. We should have.” His brow creased in the same fashion as Hermione’s, sincerity in his eyes. “Yeah I nearly popped my clogs and all, but even before then - well, I knew you were sneaking off, mate. Just had no idea it was to...” 

“Talk to a Dragon.” Hermione said, only a small amount of disbelief left in her tone. 

“Yeah.” Ron exhaled. “Heavy, that. You really reckon Malfoy’s still alive in there?”

Harry’s legs were restless and he jumped up, back in deduction mode. 

“His name is still on the map, so he must be.” _ The map never lies, _ said Sirius’ voice in his head and he knew Ron and Hermione were hearing him too from the far away look in their eyes. “I just have no idea how. Or _ why _the Dragon won’t let him go. I mean, it clearly knows what I want.” 

Harry paced up and down, biting his nails. Hermione’s expression turned shrewd. 

“Yes and what _ exactly _do you plan to do with Malfoy once you’ve freed him?” 

Harry let out a breath, debating the question. Truthfully, he hadn’t quite thought that far ahead. Once Ron had been poisoned, he’d had vivid fantasies about punching Malfoy hard across his aristocratic cheekbones. He could only imagine the kind of satisfaction that would bring. He didn’t want to seriously hurt him - he knew what it felt like to almost kill Malfoy and he didn’t want to go down that road again, he just wanted to… to… 

“I’m gonna talk to him.” Harry said. 

Ron snorted. “Always worked out well for you in the past, hasn’t it?” 

“It didn’t go so badly when…” He trailed off. Fuck. He hadn’t told Hermione and Ron about the time he’d shielded Malfoy with his invisibility cloak. The memory felt too surreal - too _ private _. “...well, we never got a chance to talk.” He fumbled on his words, determinedly avoiding eye contact with Hermione. “But I just want to know what it is he wants.”

Hermione and Ron shared a significant look. It irked Harry when they did that, like they were using occlumency to talk without him. He knew they weren’t, but he couldn’t completely smother the irrational annoyance all the same. 

“Harry, maybe he _ didn’t _want to do… whatever it is he’s doing.” 

“You can say Death Eater stuff, Hermione.” Ron laughed, “It’s pretty obvious at this point.” 

Of course Harry had endlessly considered Malfoy’s potential reluctance to be a Death Eater. He’d seen him crying in the bathroom before he'd hexed him for Godric’s sake. He’d easily have pegged Malfoy for a coward any day of the week, but the sobs racking from his rival’s body that day had been the disturbing, harrowing cries of someone who truly wanted out. The notes of those cries had struck a panicked cord in Harry, and he hadn’t even had time to think before throwing that curse at him. He remembered Malfoy’s deceptively bare white arm when they were hiding under the cloak. The amused smirk playing on his features that for once wasn’t derived from cruel taunting. Malfoy wasn’t evil. But he wasn’t good either. The lines weren’t clear cut enough, and Harry wasn’t wrapping his head around that so well. 

He carded a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Hermione. But one way or another, this Dragon is the key to something and I know if I can get Malfoy out of there”-

“There you go again.” Hermione smiled. “You mean if _ we _can get him out of there. You’re not doing this alone anymore.” 

The weight lifted off his shoulders like a cloud. He was smiling back before he knew it. 

“I’ve missed you both.” He said, meaning it. 

* * *

Dumbledore wasn’t finished with Harry. He was summoned back to his office merely hours later, and by now the vicinity had been transformed into a cool collected circle consisting of Dumbledore, sat regally behind his desk, Snape to his left and McGonagall flanking his right. 

Harry gulped as he sat down, drawing comfort from Fawkes’ serene head tilt in his direction. 

“Where’s Nar- Mrs Malfoy?” Asked Harry, peering into the shadows in search of her stone-cold glare.

Snape’s brow furrowed, Dumbledore shuffled a few leafs of parchment.

“She has been redirected to Professor Slughorn’s office for now.” He said.

“Does she know about the Dragon?”

“She knows it exists. She does not know it is the reason that her son has gone missing.” 

Despite everything he knew about Narcissa Malfoy, Harry’s insides squirmed uncomfortably. He thought of how Molly would react if she discovered Ron or Ginny had been missing for weeks. She would be heartbroken. Surely Narcissa’s heart couldn’t be so different. If she had one. 

“Don’t you think we should tell her, sir?” Harry said in a quiet voice.

“Hold your tongue.” Snape snapped, lurching forward a foot to loom over Harry. “You’ve caused enough damage this afternoon.”

Dumbledore held up a hand and Snape fell silent. 

“Potter, we need your assistance.” Said McGonagall gravely. 

Harry glanced between them all, searching for answers on each of their faces. 

“The Dragon trusts you. Would you say so, Harry?” Asked Dumbledore.

“Err…” Harry faltered. _ Did _the Dragon trust him? He listened to him. He let him ride on his back. He had flown him to the safety of his glowy cave - although he had knocked him out first. But he hadn’t tried to hurt Harry since. 

“I think he might.” He replied, because it was as close to the truth as he knew himself. 

Dumbledore exhaled. “Then I’m afraid I must use you once again.” 

Snape shook his head, his expression unreasonable. “Albus”-

“No, Severus. It must be done.” Dumbledore said, his tone harsher than Harry was used to. 

Snape averted his eyes to the floor, tight lipped. Harry masterfully disguised the smirk he so wanted to show. How he’d love to be able to put Snape in his place. 

“How, sir?” He asked brightly, if only for the way it made Snape's eye twitch.

Dumbedlore leaned forward, clasping his hands together, the contrast between his black damaged hand and the white skin on his other bright and stark. The pensieve glowed in its cabinet behind him, casting an eerie halo. 

“Visit the Dragon, Harry. Talk to him and don’t tell him we know about his… intelligence.” Dumbledore said slowly. “We know where he is hiding. We will watch and move in when the time is right. We must - _ must _apprehend him if we are to free Draco Malfoy. Do you understand?” 

Harry swallowed, wanting to break eye contact but finding himself unable to. He didn’t want to lie to the Dragon. He realized, with great discomfort, that he didn’t want to see him hurt and that he didn’t trust Dumbledore not to hurt him. He wouldn’t feel right being a part of that. But, above all else, Malfoy was trapped in there. His mother was looking for him, and _ yes _ maybe he was a Death Eater - but he was about to be a caught one. Wasn’t catching Malfoy the whole reason he’d started this in the first place? 

“Yes, sir. I understand.” He agreed, swallowing thickly. “I’ll do it.” 

McGonagall made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whimper of distress. Snape’s face was outlined by its shadows. Harry felt like he’d agreed to something that was about far more than just capturing an undiscovered species of Dragon. He’d felt like this when he’d promised the Dragon not to tell Dumbledore about him… so much for that. There were secrets permeating every pore of this situation, and he wasn’t even sure which side they came from. Voldemort’s or his own? 

Nevertheless, the conversation felt like it had been tied and he couldn’t change his mind now. He waited for Dumbledore to dismiss him, but he didn’t. He gave a nod to Snape and McGonagall, and the pair reluctantly left first. 

Harry’s palms were sweating. He felt dehydrated and his heart hadn’t stopped pounding since the match. He’d barely had time to shower. 

“Harry, I would like to ask you what you talked about with Mr Malfoy the night you hid him with your cloak.”

It took all of Harry’s willpower not to jump out of his seat. “You _ knew _ about”- he cut himself off mid-sentence. Of _ course _Dumbledore knew. Harry’s cheeks flooded with heat at being found out. 

“It wasn’t so much that I wanted to hide him, sir.”

Dumbledore raised a brow, eyes twinkling. “No?” 

“No, well…” Said Harry, “I’d been trying to figure out what he was up to for months. I waited out in the snow” - Harry wasn’t going to admit for how long - “and when he came out of the forest, he was…” _ Stop blushing, stop blushing, _“...shirtless. It just looked like something weird had been going on.” 

Harry’s mind reanalysed how that sentence sounded and he found himself blushing even harder. 

“I mean, something suspicious.” He floundered. 

“And what do you think he was doing?” Asked Dumbledore.

Harry shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, trying to banish the image of shirtless Malfoy from his mind. 

“I’m not sure, sir. He got a package from his owl at the same time. It was a mirror. It was all very strange.” 

“Very strange indeed.” Dumbledore agreed. “And why did you hide him?” 

Harry forced himself to breathe. “We heard people coming. I had my wand pointed at him and he said it would look incriminating if people saw me threatening a half-naked student by the edge of the forest.”

Dumbledore laughed, much to Harry’s dismay. “And were you threatening him?”

“No!” Said Harry, scandalised. “I just wanted to catch him in the act. We called a truce in the end.” 

Dumbledore nodded, as though he completely understood. Fawkes flew down from his perch and eyed Harry closer, letting out a gentle _ squark. _

“I quite understand your wish to keep such a thing a secret, Harry.” Said Dumbledore with far more amusement than Harry deemed appropriate for the situation. “And did you notice anything else about him that seemed... strange?” 

_ Apart from the fact he was shirtless in the middle of winter? _ Harry cast his mind back to that much-thought-about night. Malfoy had seemed… oddly manic, radiating a heat that seemed unnatural - not only for the weather, but for _ him_. Harry would have found it more believable that Malfoy’s skin be made of marble. He thought of the supple, flexing muscles easing the cloak over their heads and the way he’d been able to feel each of Malfoy’s breaths tickling the back of his neck, his chest rising and falling below his collar bone -

“A pendant!” Harry remembered suddenly. “He was wearing a pendant. A green one. It wasn’t flashy or anything, but I remember it.” 

Dumbledore’s expression darkened, but only momentarily, and it changed back before Harry could register its significance. 

“I see.” He stood, bringing Fawkes up onto his forearm with him. “Well, Harry. That will be all for tonight. And don’t forget to bring me that memory.” He winked.

_ Slughorn’s memory. _ He’d almost forgotten. 

How Dumbledore expected him to achieve acceptable NEWTs, capture a Dragon and save the Wizarding World from a war, he had no idea. 

* * *

The Gryffindor common room was a tremor of hushed whispers and fleeting glances that night. Word had quickly spread on Harry’s stunt during the match, and Seamus whistled as Harry walked in, clapping loudly where everyone else simply frowned at him. 

“Our boy Harry’s gettin’ to be a Dragon slayer!” He whooped. 

Dean shook his head apologetically at Harry. “He’s had a few drinks.” 

Seamus slapped Dean on the arm. “Yeah? We all should be drinking tonight. Not only did we win the match by default, we’re also winnin’ the fuckin’ war, baby!” 

Even though he was joking about the war, Harry felt a twang in his chest. He had to get out of there. He sprinted to his dorm room, only stopping to grab the map and, as he noticed it sitting on the corner of his desk, the bag of fudge he’d meant to feed the Dragon days ago. After Ron had been poisoned he’d forgotten about the whole thing and decided he’d rather Malfoy starved - let alone get any fudge, even if it had had to pass through the mouth of a Dragon to get to him. 

But Ron was okay, and Malfoy was about to be arrested. And maybe the Dragon liked fudge? 

Before Harry could escape, however, Neville grabbed his arm on the way out of the portrait. 

“Harry”- He said, panting, “I need to talk to y”-

“Sorry, Neville,” Said Harry, shrugging him off, “I really don’t want to talk about it right now. Bye.” 

He’d had to explain himself enough times today. Neville’s turn would have to wait. 

The castle was stonily silent. All students had been issued a curfew, per the instruction that no one was allowed out of their dormitories past seven o’clock. But technically, Harry wasn’t breaking any rules this time. Dumbledore had _ told _him to talk to the Dragon, and according to the map, the Dragon was exactly where he expected him to be: the Forbidden Forest. He took his usual route, casting a warming charm to protect himself from the chilly breeze.

As he passed by beams of warm light cast by Hagrid’s cabin, he wondered whether it was Hagrid himself who had snitched on him and Malfoy to Dumbledore the night they’d hidden under the cloak. He’d had to have seen them. Or maybe Ron was right and Dumbledore really did just see and know everything that went on in the castle. The thought didn’t sit well with Harry. 

He was by the treeline when it happened. His sight left him. He was blind, as though it had been switched out like a light. For a moment he thought the world had simply gone dark until he realized _he_ was the problem.

“Fuck,” He said, fumbling for his wand and pressing the palm of his other hand against his eyes. They were still there. He could feel his glasses slipping over his face. So why couldn’t he _ see_?

“Don’t move.” Said the icy, hissing voice of Narcissa Malfoy. 

Fear didn’t quite cut how Harry felt in response to that voice. All of his fear had been burnt out the moment he’d been convinced he was going to be eaten by a Dragon. Instead he was just... done. 

“Really?” He said into the blackness, because that was all he could see. “You’re capturing me _ here_? At Hogwarts? Your boss is running out of ideas, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

She must have cast a non-verbal sight-stealing charm of some description on him. Harry didn't know an incantation for such a curse, but apparently Narcissa Malfoy was so well-versed on the subject she could do it without making a sound. Sneaky. She was definitely her son’s mother.

A second later, his sight returned. He blinked against the suddenness of it, wiping his glasses on his shirt as the austere figure of Narcissa Malfoy swam into view. But rather than her usual expression (one which suggested a particularly unpleasant smell had just passed under her nose) her eyes were fierce, welling with tears.

“What do you want?” He snapped. He was getting sick of surprises. 

“I want you to take me to my son.” She whispered, clutching her wand. Now he could see her clearly. Her shoulders hunched over, streaked hair falling into her eyes. She was leagues away from the woman who had glided into Dumbledore’s office hours earlier. 

“Dumbledore sent me away,” She continued, “blaming Draco's disappearance on the Dark Lord.” 

“Is that really so unbelievable?” Harry found himself arguing. “I mean, you work for him. You know kidnapping a kid isn’t beneath him, even if he is the precious prince of Slytherin.” 

Narcissa struggled, opening her mouth and closing it again several times before speaking. “I know the truth, Mr. Potter. I know where he is. Take me to him.” 

There was no point in lying. “I can’t do that, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

Her red lips twitched dangerously. “You _ will _take me to him.”

“No!” 

“Why?!” 

“Because your sister killed my godfather!” Harry yelled, the heat of the words exploding from his chest and burning the air around them. 

Narcissa took a step back, her features falling. “Yes. I know.” 

Harry was breathing hard, his wand shooting out tiny sparks. He shoved it in his back pocket. 

There was no apology, but at least she didn’t do Harry the discredit of looking away. “He’s my son.” 

She was so quiet, her voice breaking on the last syllable, and Harry knew then he’d been right. Above all else, she was Malfoy’s mother, and her heart was breaking for him. 

He couldn’t believe he was about to do this. 

“I’ll take you to him,” He said, his voice shaking slightly. “But if you try anything, I’ll hex you.”

Narcissa gave him a look that suggested he’d be lucky to get so far as taking out his wand before hexing her, but she said nothing. She only nodded. 

* * *

The Dragon had hidden himself far deeper in the forest than usual. They passed the spot where Harry would usually have found him in less than half an hour, but getting to the Dragon’s new location felt like a feat in itself. At first Harry had been convinced Narcissa wouldn’t have been able to cope in the hostile environment. After all, he’d only ever seen her daintily tread in halls or shop floors. But she tackled every root and ditch that came their way with complete ease. Harry stayed five steps ahead at all times, pretending to glance down at the map every now and again, but the Dragon wasn’t moving. It was utterly still. That was a worrying sign. Usually he was zipping all over the place. Harry hoped he wasn’t too injured. Did magical creatures heal faster? A dense mist seeped through the grey canopy, pouring into a grey stream to their right. Harry stuck by it, the constant sound of the water more comforting than the dead silence. 

The mist didn’t clear, but a bluish glow began to shine through it as they got closer to Malfoy’s name on the map. As always, Harry’s heart leapt at his discovery. Finding the Dragon felt like an accomplishment every time, even with Narcissa behind him. 

He stopped.

“Let me go first, alright?” Harry whispered. 

Narcissa looked like she wanted to argue.

“He trusts me.”

She clamped her lips shut, a divet appearing between her brow. “He _ trusts _you?” She repeated quietly.

Harry nodded, turning his back on her before she dolled out another serving of skepticism. He was becoming tired of all the disbelief. He slowly paced through the mist, comforted by the lack of footfalls behind him. He wanted to talk to the Dragon first, to show him he wasn’t alone. 

But the Dragon was sleeping. 

And the sight of him made Harry gasp. 

Where before his legs had been weeping with gored cuts from his bonds, there now wound thick black stripes that looked like they’d been coated in coal. The difference in colouring from his iridescent silver scales was astonishing.

The Dragon’s arrow-tipped tail hung into the stream, bent at a sharp angle in the middle. 

An uncomfortable thread of guilt snaked through Harry’s veins, reminding him he was about to betray the Dragon’s promise. All to save a Death Eater. It wasn’t fair. The Dragon was innocent, and he was about to be captured and put through who-knew-what for Malfoy’s sake. Harry had to remind himself over and over that this was a _ good _thing. But it didn’t feel good. 

“Dragon?” He said, swallowing back his guilt. 

The Dragon opened one of his clear grey eyes, his pupil widening as he saw Harry. He didn’t rise with his usual grace. He limped to a sitting position, and though he still towered above him, he seemed vulnerable, his great head hanging from his neck like there was no support there. Exhaustion, Harry realized. 

“I know what happened.” Said Harry softly, “I know Charlie did this to you.” 

The Dragon’s mouth twisted into a snarl and his eyes narrowed. Attitude. That was more like it. 

“He’s sorry.” Said Harry meekly, “He panicked and he feels horrible about it.” 

This didn’t appear to console the Dragon at all. Harry glanced at his injuries.

“Those look awful.” 

Harry was sure the Dragon shrugged as it turned its head away from him as if to say, _ it isn’t that bad _. Harry couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. 

“Trying to act tough. Right. But I’m still sorry it happened.” He sighed, “People are always afraid of things they can’t understand.” 

The Dragon met Harry’s eyes, his gaze piercing and wide. It was hard to read the Dragon’s expression, but he seemed… shocked. Or grateful, or… 

A twig crunched in the mist behind them. The Dragon coiled inward, releasing a low, thundering growl that quaked the ground. 

“It’s okay!” Said Harry, “It’s only”-

The Dragon stopped growling as the shadow in the mist became clear. He unwound his tail from the stream (Harry noticed him flinch with pain) and took a step back as Narcissa came to stand beside Harry. 

“I told you to wait.” Said Harry.

She ignored him, staring up at the Dragon with wide, clear eyes. A tear tracked down her high-cheekbone, and then another and another. 

This was a mistake, Harry realized. She might do anything. She might try to free her son herself, and he was sure she’d have no qualms about killing the Dragon in the process. 

“Oh, my son,” Narcissa whispered before a sob overcame her and she clamped a hand over her mouth. 

Harry was about to step between them and demand they go back or yell at the Dragon to run away when something extraordinary happened. 

Narcissa extended a trembling, gloved hand and as she did, the Dragon came closer. Harry knew he could shrink and grow, he’d seen him do it before, but never to this level. 

As he approached, the Dragon shrunk down until he was tiny - almost the size of a human. 

Harry backed away in awe, watching as the Dragon hesitantly limped toward Narcissa. At this size, he seemed so vulnerable. So small and hurt, the scale of his injuries not minimized at all by his new proportions. In an odd way, he also came across as more _ real_, Harry thought. As a full size Dragon, he was awesome and spectacular in a way that took his breath away, but now he was just - here. 

The Dragon, rather than snapping Narcissa’s hand clean from her wrist, gently bent his head and allowed her to place her palm between his eyes. 

Narcissa was openly crying. She abandoned her decorum and laid her head against the Dragon’s, saying the same things over and over again. 

“Stay away, Draco… please, stay away. Don’t come back. I love you. I love you. I love you.” 

Harry didn’t understand. Question after question scorched the back of his tongue, each one more perplexing than the last. 

Just as Harry was mustering the sobriety to ask one of them, Narcissa broke away, turning her back with a flourish. “Don’t follow me.” He heard her say through a sob before she disappeared through the mist. 

The Dragon was frozen still, and so was Harry, the last of Narcissa’s plaintive cries pervading through the fog and ringing in their ears. 

*

_ No. No, no, no. No. _ Was all Draco could think after his mother left them standing there. His Curse was searing him inside and out, yanking on his insides and trying to tug his scales down until they became smooth, human skin. 

Seeing his mother again had been all he’d wanted for so long, and now that he had, he wished he could go back and hide before she ever managed to find him. Seeing her cry had broken him. She’d told him not to come back. 

Now he had to come back. He had to. 

He couldn’t leave her alone in the manor with those monsters. 

He risked a glance at Potter who resembled a body-bound garden gnome, standing there gawking at him like he’d never seen him before. 

So he didn’t know about the Curse.

Small mercies. 

What had his mother been thinking, using Potter to find him? She must have been truly desperate. 

Draco had to do something before Potter put two and two together and guessed what…no, _ who _… he was. 

He huffed and stomped off back toward his stream which didn’t quite have the effect he wanted because he was limping. He made a great show of lapping up mouthfuls of bitter stream water, gulping each one down despite its horrible taste. He felt rather like a cat. It was a bit demeaning, but he’d long since abandoned his pride. So had his mother, it seemed. 

She was the image of defeat - dark circles under her eyes like bruises, back bent as though she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

He hated Potter for bringing her here. He’d ruined everything. He might not know it, but he had. 

“I thought she was going to hurt you.” Potter muttered after far too long a silence. 

_ You were damn right_, Draco thought. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge Potter as he limped back to the warm patch of soil he’d been sleeping in. He didn’t change his size back either. The worse the Curse nagged him to change back into a human, the easier it became to stay small. It didn’t quite use as much energy as staying big. He hadn’t meant to downsize like this, but seeing his mother had robbed him of his agency. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else, and not even the look on Potter’s face was worth it. 

Draco curled up in the soil, trying to ignore the pain in his tail. His legs weren’t too bad. Just a bit tight and uncomfortable. He’d probably burned away all the nerves, but his tail fucking hurt.

Potter shuffled closer, holding onto his bag like a lifeline. He dug inside it and drew out a ragged piece of parchment, studying it closely. _ Homework_? Draco thought with an inward snort. 

“She’s back at the castle.” He said to himself.

Who was _ she? _His mother? And how did he know she was at the castle? Just as Draco was getting curious about what was on the parchment, Potter stuffed it back into his bag, instead opting for a crumpled pouch. 

“I brought you something. Well, not you _ technically_.” He stuttered. _ Get on with it, _ Draco willed him tiredly. “Ages ago I thought - I dunno what I thought - but I guessed Malfoy might not have, um, eaten anything in a while. Obviously if he was actually starving in there he’d be dead by now but… ugh, whatever. I dunno.” Draco was struggling to piece together that mess of a sentence when Potter pulled out a square piece of - _ fudge _? 

“Just eat this, alright?” He huffed, green eyes aimed at the ground which he scuffed at relentlessly. “But try and not to chew it. Maybe… um… maybe Malfoy could have some if he’s conscious in there.” 

Draco was, for the second time in five minutes, shocked into stillness. He stared at Potter, desperately trying for the life of him to work out what the _ fuck _was going on in his head. He’d bought him a bag of fudge? How in Merlin’s name did Potter know fudge was his favourite sweet?

Moments later, Potter was standing in front of him, holding out the piece expectantly. Either that, or preparing to toss it into his mouth like a Chaser throwing a Quaffle. Ridiculous. 

Draco pushed himself up onto his hinds and bent forward to take the piece of fudge out of the Gryffindor’s giving hand. 

The first of his fangs brushed against Potter’s skin, and Draco realized with some reluctance he was trying not to hurt him. Potter dropped the the fudge into his mouth, drawing away and rubbing at his hand where Draco had touched it with his teeth. 

Wuss. 

Despite instruction, he _ did _chew, and it was hilariously difficult. These teeth were meant for tearing apart flesh and crunching through bone. Not mind-numbingly delicious toffee-flavoured fudge that melted right into his taste buds, flooding his insides with a warm, comforting sensation that sorely reminded him of home. 

It was difficult not to savour. He swallowed it back with considerable difficulty, glad his scales couldn’t blush. He hated it when people watched him eat, and Potter was watching him intently, his face flushed when he saw Draco had swallowed it. Draco huffed some air through his nose as if to say _ more, please_. 

And, marvellously, Potter understood. He took a fistful of fudge this time, repeating the action with more confidence and placing it all in Draco’s mouth. 

The next batch was even better, and soon Potter was smiling. 

“Wow, you really like fudge. Who’d have thought?” His eyes creased when he smiled like that. Draco had tried hard not to notice. 

Soon, Potter’s expression became far too much to handle alongside the intimacy of feeding him hand-to-mouth so he turned away and slumped back onto the ground, still relishing the lasting taste of fudge. A small burst of flame in the back of his throat made it taste even better. 

Potter laughed as smoke billowed from his nostrils, making Draco even _ more _embarrassed. 

“I knew the fudge was a good idea. Hermione was dead wrong.” 

_ Granger_? Draco both did and didn’t want Potter to elaborate. Potter shoved the empty pouch of fudge back into his bag, his eyes bright as he chose not only to sit by Draco, but lean against him by the join of his wing to his shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” He asked tentatively.

Draco heaved a great sigh in response, but he didn’t move. 

“I was trying to think of ways to talk to Malfoy, back when I first realized you’d only gone and eaten him. I suppose now I know he’s in some sort of coma. He must be. Or he’d have found a way out by now.” 

Potter’s brain truly did conjure some marvellous ideas. Draco was content to listen. Amidst the horrific chaos of his life, this was a welcome and entertaining break. It was helping him not to think about his mother, even if it wasn’t quite suppressing the effects of the Curse. As he had the thought, it bristled under his scales, sending a shiver through him. 

“I told Hermione and Ron about you today. They wanted to know why I’d flown down there and… well, I don’t really know what I was doing, but I’m glad you understood. I didn’t want anyone to hurt you.” 

_ I didn’t want anyone to hurt you_. Draco kept very still. Potter’s body was warm against him. It would be easier to ignore if he was in his bigger Dragon form, but they weren’t all too different in size for the moment. 

“Can I try and heal you?” Asked Potter, swivelling around to gaze directly at him. 

Draco didn’t know what to do. Potter’s eyes were large and keen and open. He’d never looked at Draco like that when he was human, except maybe when - 

_ “Draco… I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, Draco. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” _

The memory struck Draco like a _ Stupefy _ \- Potter had called him by his first name, then, hadn’t he? His face had looked largely then like it did now. Draco already knew Potter felt guilty for using that curse against him in the bathroom, was it possible he somehow felt responsible for what had happened to him now, too? 

It was laughable. Potter’s saviour complex truly knew no bounds. 

Draco shook his head, throwing in a scowl for good measure. He didn’t need Potter’s stupid pity. The Gryffindor’s expression crumpled, and Draco momentarily wished he’d accepted Potter’s offer to try and heal him. He knew full well it wouldn’t work. The strength of magic needed to work on his body now compared to a human’s was off the charts. Even the most skilled wizard would have difficulty healing him. 

But Potter didn’t know that, and appeared to have taken Draco’s refusal as a personal offence. Which, he supposed, it was. 

Potter leant back against him, scooting his knees under his chin. 

“Okay.” He said.

Why did he have to sound so bloody dejected? 

The Gryffindor mentality would forever remain the greatest enigma in the wizarding world. 

“Are you trusting to everyone you meet?” Potter asked all of a sudden. The question felt loaded, but Draco couldn’t fathom why Potter would ever think he was trusting. 

“Have you met Narcissa before? Is that why she cried? I’m trying to understand what’s going on and I - I just can’t.” 

Draco heard a thump, and he was sure Potter had punched the ground. 

“Nothing makes sense.” He groaned. “No one makes sense.” 

_ Agreed_, thought Draco. 

“Especially you.” He felt Potter’s body heave as he yawned. “How can you even exist?” 

Draco had been trying to answer the same question himself for quite some time. The Curse had made him suffer nearly half a lifetime of that question. And he was no closer to answering it than he had been when he was thirteen. 

He couldn’t tell if it was night or day. In this part of the Forest, it was always night, but the day had certainly been long if it wasn’t. Draco was absolutely exhausted. Part of him wished Potter would leave so he could sleep in peace, but another part needed him to stay because if he didn't, he would be left with the horrifying notion that soon he would have to change back. Either his wish to join his mother or the Curse would force him to do it, and so far it looked like the Curse was winning.

But it was okay.

He was in control.

He wasn’t going to transform.

Not now. Not yet. 

“Whatever happens,” Potter said, his words slurred by his own tiredness, “I hope you won’t ever forget me.” 

If Draco knew one thing for certain, it was that forgetting Harry Potter was never going to be an option. 

*

Something was wrong. Harry knew the second he woke up that he wasn’t alone. If it was morning, he would never know. The forest looked the same as it had when he had fallen asleep; eerily dark and misty and greyish - but the Dragon had moved. Harry was lying on his side, curled up in the leaves, and an odd sound was coming from beside him. 

He shot up, hand flying straight to his wand. 

The Dragon was still smaller than he was used to, and he was writhing on the ground metres away at impossible angles, his wings twisting and flapping hard against the soil. 

“Dragon!” Harry shout-whispered. 

His eyes were shut, his mouth curled into a snarl. A nightmare? 

“Harry!” Another voice answered from the mist instead. 

Harry whirled around, wand held up. “Who’s there?” 

The mist cleared instantly, swished away by Dumbledore. And he wasn’t the only one. Harry gasped as he realized they were surrounded. Dumbledore, a circle of staff members and Charlie’s team of Dragon-Keepers flanked the Dragon and Harry in a wide circle. 

“Get back, Harry,” Came Charlie’s voice from somewhere to his left, “We’ll take it from here.”

_ “No…” _ Harry found himself saying. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want this. He thought this would take longer, that they'd _wait_. He turned to the Dragon, who had awoken from the voices but was no less distressed than before. His pupils were dilating and shrinking, ribbons of smoke pooling from his mouth as he growled at their company, before finally rounding on Harry. 

“I-I’m sorry.” Harry stammered as the Dragon’s eyes screamed betrayal. “I didn’t know what else to do.” 

With a bound, the Dragon tried to take off, but his broken tail prevented him from finding a trajectory and he crashed back to the ground in a pitiful heap. 

Harry saw some of the team advance to capture him, but before they could, an explosion of flame was fired their way, wrapping around in a circle until Harry and the Dragon were cut off from the rest. 

The shield charms went up only just in time, but the trees around them were alight. 

“You don’t have to do this!” Harry cried, “They won’t hurt you!” 

The Dragon stumbled, his wings falling limp at his side. He wasn’t focused on Harry. He wasn’t focused on anything. His eyes rolled back into his head and for a terrible second Harry thought someone had shot a curse at him. But he shook his head hard, fixing Harry once more with a glare that said everything he needed to know. He’d lost the Dragon’s trust forever. 

“I know I promised a-and I broke it, but I had to!” 

The Dragon hissed, advancing on Harry, all of last night’s closeness gone.

Someone was calling Harry’s name in the distance. Why was no one firing spells yet? What was Dumbledore waiting for? 

There was nothing for it. Harry raised his wand - 

The Dragon opened his mouth and a plume of bright white flame followed, directed at Harry. 

Harry threw up a non-verbal shield charm as the assault continued. It only stopped when the flames spluttered and died in the Dragon’s throat as he fell, his silver body buckling under his injured legs. 

Harry coughed through the smoke, ready to protect himself again. But he didn’t have to, because the Dragon was changing. 

Harry watched in disbelief and horror as his wings bent and folded in on themselves like dying December leaves. The rest of his body followed suit, shrinking and morphing into… into… 

Smoke clogged Harry’s throat, but he leapt into the thick of it, the ground scorching beneath his feet. 

His Dragon’s wings and his scales were the last to go, smoothing out into pale, white skin and retracting into the unconscious body of Draco Malfoy, a simple green pendant winking in the hollow of his throat. 

The threat was over, but the mystery was far from solved. 

  
  



	7. Veritaserum

The truth, Harry realized, was a terrible thing. 

Dumbledore’s office was dim, lit only by soft oil lamps in each of the four corners. The silence was oppressive, marred by the muted, ragged breaths of the person sat beside him. 

Harry determinedly faced the desk, his back rigid in the chair. What was _ taking _so long? He’d hardly been able to look at Malfoy, save only for the moment he’d first appeared - naked and pale and unconscious in the forest - and the moment he’d entered Dumbledore’s office.

Malfoy had been dressed in a loose, black robe. Nothing more. He’d stood in the doorway and upon seeing Harry he’d stopped. His expression had been unguarded, glassy grey eyes wide and fearful (how had Harry not noticed they were the same as his Dragon’s? It seemed so obvious to him now), before forming into a bland deadness. Malfoy’s overgrown hair fell into his eyes as he took uneven steps towards the desk and collapsed into the chair beside Harry. 

Rage had bubbled at Harry’s lips like poison, and if Malfoy hadn’t been limping he’d have strode over there and punched him hard in the face. But he didn’t. Instead, the awful truth he’d come to learn over the past couple of hours willed him into bitter silence.

And now, here they were, waiting for Dumbledore like a pair of first years waiting to receive detention. 

Harry regretted looking over, because the first thing he noticed was Malfoy’s arm. The sleeve of his robe had ridden up to reveal the black smudge of a tattoo on his forearm. He felt sick. 

“I was right.” Harry said, his remark cutting through the quiet. No triumph. No smug satisfaction. It rang of disdain. 

Malfoy briefly closed his eyes, exhaling a breath. He faced Harry with the same dead expression as before.

“What?” 

Malfoy’s voice was cracked, like he’d just woken up from a long sleep. 

He didn’t look like a Death Eater. He looked younger than Harry had ever seen him. Stark and thin and hurt. 

He glanced down at Malfoy’s arm in response. Malfoy covered the mark with his hand. 

“Are you after a reward, Potter?” He spat, “Was ruining my life not enough for you?” 

The mixed cocktail of humiliation and anger rose in Harry’s abdomen again and he clenched his fists. 

“You lied.” It was an obvious statement. And hardly an insult given who he was talking to. But they both knew what he meant. 

Malfoy’s face twisted into scorn. “You really think you’re so special, don’t you? As if I would expose my darkest secret to _ you_. You had no right to know it.” 

“And you had no right to use me!” Harry shouted, his associations with his Dragon and Draco Malfoy still so separate from each other. How could they be the same? _ How? _Malfoy was a brat. He always had been. Even beaten down and laid bare as he was now, he still maintained the audacity to act like a first-class prat. 

Malfoy’s guise faltered, his pale facade crumbling into incredulity. “Use you.” He echoed. “Get your head out of your arse, Potter.” 

The silence returned, thicker and more charged than ever. Harry’s resentment went unspent, and he was left glaring as the subject of his indignation turned his head and stared straight ahead into nothing, refusing to acknowledge him. 

*

_ “Enervate.” _

It was like waking from a month-long dream. Or falling into a nightmare. The first thing Draco saw was Snape - _ how pleasant _ \- pointing his wand at Draco’s chest and staring at him with disturbed, beetle-like eyes. 

He’d tried to move, but his wrists and legs were bound to a chair. It was dark, the only light source three points of wand-light all aimed at him. He was in one of the dungeons. He recognized it first from the unsteady drip of green lakewater that tended to run down the walls, and then the musty, damp smell of wet stone and stale air. At least someone had put him in clothes, however thin they were. 

Draco struggled instinctively, the cords of fabric digging into his skin. He was all too familiar with this feeling after yesterday, but it felt different on human flesh. Words didn’t come easily. His vocal-chords felt thick and unused, and for a moment he could only grunt in protest. 

“I am sorry, Draco.” Came the headmaster’s tepid apology. He didn’t sound sorry at all, the old fuck. “But we must take every precaution.”

Draco struggled. If need be, he could transform again to escape. It might drain him, but he may be able to do it for just enough time to get out. He relaxed his entire body, forcing his eyes to flutter shut again as he reached deep down inside himself and sought the fire of the Curse. 

“Albus.” Came another, warning voice. McGonagall? 

“I know, Minerva. He’s trying to change back.” 

The cords tightened like serpents around Draco’s limbs. He pushed back in frustration.

“For fuck’s sake, let me go!” He tried to yell hoarsely, barely managing more than a whisper. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Which is why we need to do this.” The headmaster explained stoically. “Draco, Professor Snape is going to administer you a small dose of Veritaserum. When you have told us the truth, he will then administer a rejuvenation potion and you will be sent to my office for further arrangements. Do you understand?” 

_Further arrangements?_ What the hell did that mean?

Draco felt wrong. Unguarded. The Curse was there but it was as though it didn’t belong to him. The reason why clicked seconds later, the weightlessness on bare neck sending tremors of panic through him. 

“Where’s my pendant?” He demanded. “I need it. I need it! Give it back!” 

“I have it.” Said McGonagall, “It will be returned to you, Draco.” 

Snape’s wand light passed over Draco’s face as he produced a tiny vial of clear potion. Draco clamped his mouth shut. He shook his head violently, knowing this would do him no good.

“Cooperate, Draco.” Snape hissed, “This will be much less painless if you do.”

“For who? For y”-? He was cut off by Snape’s hand forcing his mouth open and tipping the potion down his throat before he could protest further. 

Draco was well-acquainted with the deceptively sweet, clean taste of Veritaserum. His father had used it on him over and over again when he was a child. As a result, Draco had no secrets from his parents, and the fear of being forced to speak the truth had willed him into obedience from an early age. 

The taste sent the memories flooding back, hours and hours of his father interrogating him about school and his friends and the smallest of his secrets - the images hazed over the image of the three teachers stood in front of him now. The manic-look in his father’s eyes before his mother had come in to stop it all was what had stuck with him most, like Draco could never give him the answers he truly wanted, whatever they were. 

But there was far more on the line for this interrogation than there ever had been with his father. His secret was about to be exposed, and there was nothing he could do about it as the potion suffused into his body, encouraging him with an enlightened spirit to be honest. To admit to everything. Because it would be far easier this way, wouldn’t it, if there were no more secrets? 

Draco fought the feeling, even suppressing the urge to breathe in his effort. 

“What are you?” Came Dumbledore’s authoritative timbre.

Well, that was easy. “A Malfoy.” 

“And what else?” 

“A Wizard.” 

This truth wasn’t incriminating. It was just a statement of fact. But the words spilled from his lips like mercury. Far too easily. Far too quickly.

“And?” Dumbledore pressed. 

“A Pureblood. A- A Death Eater.” 

“Did Lord Voldemort transform you into a Dragon?” 

Dumbledore’s voice was getting closer, occupying every corner of Draco’s mind like a thought of its own. He was so weak, but he tried to resist. 

“Answer me.” 

“...No.” 

“Then how did it happen?”

_ Tell him. Tell him all. _ “I… don’t…” _ Resist. Speak. Resist. _

Amazingly, McGonagall’s voice reached Draco from the depth of his mind. 

“Do we have to do it this way?” 

Her question went ignored. 

“Draco! Tell me how it happened!” 

“A Curse. A family Curse. I was thirteen years old. I transformed in the manor. I injured my father. My father wanted to kill me, but my mother wouldn’t let him. I have to transform every few months or - or it forces me.” Draco could hear his own voice, but it was out of his control, compelled by the headmaster’s strong command and the Veritaserum’s magic. 

“What is the Curse?” His voice sounded softer now. Kind. Encouraging. 

“I don’t know.”

“Truly? You do not know its origin?” 

“No.” 

“What is the necklace for? What does it do?” 

“L-let’s me control. Without it, I can’t remember who I am when I transform. It keeps my mind and my body connected. My mother made it.” 

“And what of yesterday? Why did you transform for so long, Draco?” 

“To… to protect.” 

“To protect who? Yourself?”

“Yes. And mother.”

“From?”

“Everyone.” 

The silence was brief, and Draco hauled in a gasp of oxygen, unaware he’d been holding back for so long. He was shivering, his body barely coping with staying awake, let alone sitting through an interrogation, but his mind was utterly separate. His consciousness floated on a silver cloud, and the more he told the truth the further it drifted from his body. The feeling was akin to a terrible bliss, and he was far too weak to resist it. 

“Does the Dark Lord know about your Curse?” 

“No.” 

“Who does?”

“My mother. My father. You.” 

The cords were loosening, relenting on his tired joints. His ankle hurt. He could feel it now. 

“Draco, why did you become a Death Eater?” 

His chest was tight. He was breathing hard and Merlin be damned if he started crying. 

“The Dark Lord made me do it. I had to or he’d find out about my Curse. He gave me a… a special mission.” 

“And what was that mission, Draco?”

His next inhale shook with fear. “To kill you.” 

He was vaguely aware of McGonagall’s gasp of despair. 

“You brought the necklace?”

“Yes.”

“And poisoned the mead that almost killed Ron Weasley?”

_ “Yes.” _

“Why didn’t you kill me at the Quidditch match, Draco? You could have done it easily in your Dragon’s form. You could have killed us all and won the war for your master. So why didn’t you?” 

Draco hoped he wasn’t crying. His face had gone completely cold and it was getting harder to just move his lips. His eyes remained closed as he uttered a sentence that made him hate himself. 

“I didn’t want to.” 

The cords fell away, allowing Draco to slump fully into the hard-backed chair, his head hanging with shame and exhaustion. He didn’t know he was falling forwards until Snape caught him. Another vial was pressed to his lips, and he drank it obediently, the rejuvenation potion sending a fresh burst of energy lancing through his veins. The Veritaserum hadn’t worn off yet but Draco could feel its effects waning. 

He blinked, finding it hard to look at their faces. Snape’s was the easiest to bear, McGonagall’s horrified expression only bothered him a bit, but Dumbledore’s was the worst. He wasn’t angry or even surprised. There was only pity and understanding there. And Draco hated it. 

He’d betrayed his father completely, showing more weakness in the last few minutes than ever in his life. 

“How are you feeling?” Asked Dumbledore. 

“Fucking wonderful.” Draco astounded himself by the amount of cynicism he managed to muster. 

“Good. Professor McGonagall will escort you to my office and there you will await further instruction. Clear?” 

Draco coughed, his throat tight and sore after speaking so much. “Fuck you.” 

The headmaster smiled, irking Draco even more. He’d expected a reprimand from McGonagall at least for his foul language, but she’d gone utterly pale and withdrawn. Even on the way up to Dumbledore’s office, she barely said a word. Draco could hardly walk on his ankle. Hee couldn’t spot so much as a bruise. The skin was white and untouched, but it felt broken. McGonagall didn’t comment on his gait, but the journey was slow. The corridors were deserted. The world outside remained dark. Draco had thought it was morning, the night had seemed so long. But no. It was still too early for the sun to rise. He sighed, grateful they’d finally reached the doorway to the office. Before he entered, McGonagall procured his necklace wish a swish of her wand. 

“There you are.” She told him, holding it out to him at arm's length. “Wait inside, Mr. Malfoy.” Saying his name appeared to cause her physical effort. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. Whether due to guilt or disgust, Draco couldn’t be sure.

He took the smooth, jade pendant in his hand, curling it into his fist. The very presence of it soothed his Curse, reminding him he was back in control. He took a deep, trembling breath. He wouldn’t thank her, but he gave her a short nod before pushing open the door. 

And who was sat by the desk waiting for him? Only the last fucking person he wanted to see. 

It was a curious thing, how seeing the one who had brought him comfort over the past few weeks now kindled within him a feeling of pure hatred. He gripped the pendant hard in his left hand and strode into the office with as much decorum as he could fathom. The limp didn’t help. 

He considered bolting, but where would he go? The teachers knew his secret. He’d be caught again, and if not by them, then by the Dark Lord - and that idea didn’t even bear thinking about. 

Sitting down again was a huge relief, and Draco tried not to reveal how grateful he was to sit in a chair that wasn’t restraining him. Aside from the pain in his ankle, using his human limbs again was exhausting - almost as if he’d forgotten how after so long of flying and walking on four legs.

Potter was tense beside him, radiating so much heat and furious energy that the air crackled with it. Draco tried to ignore him, the unsaid issue of everything that had happened over the past few weeks and the truth of it all stretching between them endlessly. Draco decided a better use of his time would be to start counting the books on Dumbledore’s shelves behind his desk.

“I was right,” Said Potter after an uncomfortably strained silence. _ He couldn’t be serious _? Was Potter genuinely implying he’d guessed Draco was a Dragon? Draco closed his eyes and said a small prayer for his sanity before turning to the thick-headed Chosen One.

“What?” 

Potter’s eyes wandered downward, and it hit Draco with a jolt of dread what he was looking at. He made a sad attempt to hide the tattoo, placing his free hand over it and stroking his pendant with his thumb in the other hand. 

Of course, this was all Potter cared about. It was all he’d ever cared about. He didn’t give a fuck about Draco’s Curse or any of it. The realization grounded him. 

“Are you after a reward, Potter? Was ruining my life not enough for you?” 

Potter didn’t even wait to start his pig-headed verbal assault. How very like him. 

“You lied.” He spat.

Draco wanted to scoff. Was he actually surprised? It was pitiful, how conceited one person could be. Potter had the privilege of being a good person. The expectation was gifted to him simply by rank of birth and circumstance. Draco didn’t have that privilege. He never had. 

“You really think you’re so special, don’t you? As if I would expose my darkest secret to _you._ You had no right to know it.” _You had no right to make me think you weren’t what I thought you were -_ _Dumbledore’s self-righteous lapdog, _Draco nearly added. 

“And you had no right to use me!” Potter fired back, his bright green eyes watching him with anguish. It was too raw. Too real. And so, so wrong. How could Draco possibly begin to explain what their interactions had meant to him? How could he say that Potter was all he’d had these past few weeks, that just hearing his voice had brought him from the brink of oblivion and back to something that resembled a concept of civilisation? He couldn’t, so he swallowed it back instead. 

“_Use you _... Get your head out of your arse, Potter.” 

Draco went back to counting Dumbledore’s books. Before Potter had decided to open his mouth, he’d got so far as the third shelf down. There were a total of one-hundred-and-eighty-six books on the first three of the long, mahogany shelves Dumbledore kept for himself, and Draco vaguely wondered how many of them were too dark even for the restricted section. Any headmaster willing to strap a student into a chair and interrogate him had to be the proud owner of more than a few tomes that would shock his deputies - except maybe Snape. Did the headmaster know his precious new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was a Death Eater, too? 

Draco decided if he was going down, Snape would go down with him. One final hurrah in the face of ultimate injustice. Maybe they’d be cellmates in Azkaban. The thought didn’t bring him much solace. 

Potter was chewing his nails again. Just the sound of it was tempting Draco into breaking his prideful silence to slap Potter’s hand away from his mouth, but thankfully he was saved by another sound:

Shouting. Coming from outside the door. And it was getting closer.

“...to even inform me that you’d found”- !

The door banged open.

_ “Draco.” _

After his borderline torturous interrogation coupled with the fact he was still readjusting to his human body, it was a miracle Draco managed to hold himself together as his mother, eyes alight with fury, her unkempt hair tumbling over her shoulders, burst into the office. Dumbledore was close behind her, but Draco hardly saw him as he jumped up from his chair, tripping on his painful ankle and falling into her waiting arms. 

“I told you to run away.” She scolded, hugging him closer all the same, her tears wetting his hair. 

“I’m sorry, mother...” 

She was drawn and pale, but her arms around Draco were strong and solid. He vowed never to abandon her again. 

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that for. He was more than aware of Potter and Dumbledore watching them, but he didn’t care. He’d managed to forget what being hugged by his mother felt like, and after so long in his Dragon’s body he relished every second. 

She finally let him go, only to hold him by the shoulders and gaze into his face.

“What did they do to you?” 

Draco hung his head. “I’m sorry.” 

She directed her force at Dumbledore, gripping Draco’s shoulders tighter. 

“What did you do to him?!” She demanded.

Dumbledore gave a polite cough. “Please, Mrs. Malfoy. If you would only take a seat”-

“Take your seat,” Narcissa began, “and put it”-

“Mother.” Draco interrupted her, “I need to sit down.”

He could feel his body sinking even as he was saying it. His ankle had all but given up, and the exhaustion was creeping back despite the rejuvenation potion. There hadn’t been much of it. Presumably just enough to keep Draco conscious. 

“Oh, my dear. Of course.” Said Narcissa, helping him back to his seat, throwing daggers at both Dumbledore and Potter.

Perhaps it was only for Draco’s sake, but his mother reluctantly took the chair Dumbledore conjured for her, gripping his hand tight as Dumbledore told her about the Forest and the interrogation. Her mouth was a hard line of kept-back retorts, and she didn’t speak until Dumbledore had finished.

“And what,” She punctuated every syllable, “is it that you intend to do with my son now?” 

Potter glanced between Dumbledore and Narcissa, and Draco accidentally met his eye. Why Potter looked so concerned, Draco had no clue. This was all his fault to begin with. 

“I want to help him,” Said Dumbledore slowly, fixing his eyes on Draco, “if he will let me.” 

Draco scoffed instinctively, “You couldn’t help me. We’ve tried everything to break this Curse, there’s nothing you could possibly do.” 

Dumbledore frowned. “I don’t want to break your Curse, Draco. I want to make sure you don’t have to live in fear.”

“Sending me to Azkaban with a bunch of Dementors ought to do the trick.” Draco quipped, resentment rising in his throat like bile. 

Dumbledore gently shook his head. “No, Draco. You shan’t be going to Azkaban. Unless you turn yourself in, of course.” 

_ What? _ Draco didn’t understand. He was far from used to the idea of going to prison, but he’d at least come to accept it. It was all he deserved, after all. He was a Death Eater who had attempted to assassinate one of the most powerful wizards of their time - and he’d _ admitted it to the man himself_. Did Dumbledore have a death wish? 

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it.” Said Dumbledore. “You have far more to lose than I have, Draco. A man like myself can only fight so hard against such fear and such power.”

Draco was shivering all over, and he couldn’t stop it. “But I’ve failed. Don’t you see?” He made himself look at his mother. Her eyes were still brimming with tears, and Draco had to force himself not to avert his eyes. “We’re all going to die because I’ve failed.” He whispered. 

“You failed to do the wrong thing,” Dumbledore said, his voice as soft and calm as ever. 

“YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THE WRONG THING IS!” Draco exploded, unable to bear the headmaster’s unrelenting tranquility. “FOR YEARS, I’VE HAD TO HIDE THIS SO NO ONE DIES! IT’S NEVER BEEN ABOUT ME! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE RIGHT OR WRONG THING I JUST WANTED TO PROTECT THEM!” 

He stood, his tired legs shaking with the effort to support him. “And now…” He continued, his voice breaking, “And now there’s no point anymore… it’s over. The secret is out and I - I couldn’t kill you.”

The office blurred as the tears he’d been holding back spilled free, a lump in his throat preventing him from continuing. He wiped them away furiously, gulping back the urge to break down completely. It was tempting. The screams built in his chest, and it took all he had to quiet them. He made himself sit back down, falling hard into his chair and wiping his forearm across his face as tears threatened to resurface. The tension in the room was palpable. 

“What is stopping you now?” Dumbledore asked, as if Draco had posed a completely rational question in the middle of a polite debate.

“What are you talking about?” He sniffed. He refused to take his mother’s hand again. He’d shown far too much weakness today. 

“There is nothing stopping you from killing me now.” The old man continued.

“Professor…” Came Potter’s uncertain interjection. 

“I don’t have my wand.” Said Draco flatly.

Dumbledore opened his desk drawer and rummaged around for a moment before revealing Draco’s wand. He reached over the desk, offering it to him. 

Draco blinked. The headmaster _ did _have a death wish. Sensing a trick, he kept his hands tight by his side, one still clutching the pendant. 

“Well?” Dumbledore raised a brow. “Don’t you want it back? You can’t have become so accustomed to your life in the wilderness that you’d give up your wand, Draco.” 

He was right. Draco would die before giving up his wand and his magic. It was a fundamental part of who he was, and as he gingerly wrapped his hand around the handle of his Hawthorn wand, he felt the channel of magic between his body and his wand reconnect with a magnetism so forceful he gasped audibly. It struck him how non-human he’d felt without it since waking up, and how much more complete he felt holding it in his hand now. A warmth settled in his chest where the Curse usually writhed impatiently. With both his pendant and his wand, he was almost himself again. 

“We need you, Draco, in order to win this war.” Said the headmaster darkly. 

He heard his mother suck in a breath between her teeth, but he spoke first. 

“I won’t become your weapon.” Draco said firmly. 

“No, not as a weapon. As yourself.” 

There was a pause. Unsurprisingly, Potter looked the most confused, but he always did so no surprises there. 

“Stay here. Pretend you are still working for Voldemort and tell us when you planned to have him ambush the castle. Yes, I know there was a plan. I have my sources.” 

_ Wry bastard_. “Then why do you need me?” 

Dumbledore folded his hands together, and Draco gave thought to his blackened fingers. It looked like a nasty injury. A Curse, probably. _ Ironic_, Draco thought. 

“Winning the war isn’t about killing Voldemort, Draco. It isn’t about crushing your enemy or about proving who has the most strength. It is about showing our children what is _ right _ and building a better future for them.”

There it was again. _ What’s Right_. He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, your lot have done a fantastic job of that for us.” 

Narcissa stood. “Why should we trust you?”

“Because if you don’t, Voldemort _ will _use your son as a weapon, Mrs. Malfoy, and he won’t give him an option.” Said Potter unexpectedly.

Draco blinked. It felt odd to hear his nemesis address his mother as ‘Mrs. Malfoy.’ 

Narcissa inhaled deeply. “We have protected ourselves well enough thus far”-

“By making him a Death Eater?” Potter retorted. 

“It was my choice!” Draco lied. “If I didn’t do it, he’d have tortured us!”

Potter finally met his eye. “Sounds like the choice was taken away from you if you ask me.” His expression clouded. “Then again, you’ve always got off on making people suffer. Maybe you wanted it after all.” 

Draco was about to hurl another round back at him when Dumbledore lifted a hand, silencing them all. Draco was sure he used a non-verbal spell of some kind to do it. 

“Whatever choices you made or did not make, are in the past,” He told Narcissa and Draco, “The most important choice you must make is now.” 

Draco clenched his jaw. “And if I refuse to stay here and play along with your Order and your plans? What then?”

Dumbledore’s expression did not change, but there was a halting command about him that stilled the room. 

“Then I will ask you both to leave my school. I would advise you to leave the country, but given your dedication to remain in high society I am sure such advice would go unheeded and you will remain under the ultimate control of Voldemort.” 

Narcissa took a step back, her eyes hard. She turned to Draco. 

“I don’t care where our family stands,” She said softly. He dreaded to think what his father would say upon hearing such words, and the part of Draco that sided with him shivered at hearing her say it. “But I do care what happens to you.” She clasped his hands. “There were… measures put in place, should you fail to complete your mission.”

Draco’s heart fell to his stomach, “Mother, what…?” 

“But they don’t matter,” She interrupted him, “I… just want you to be safe. I don’t care what side we’re on, as long as _ he _doesn’t find out what you are.” 

Draco gulped. It was both of their worst fear, and deep down he knew that staying here would be the safest thing to do. But his pride, his self-shattering, life-ruining pride, so badly didn’t want to give up. But his mother had already abandoned hers. And he was nothing without her. 

Closing his eyes briefly, he thought of all that must change. He thought of his father, and of the snake-like, red eyes that haunted every nightmare. Then he opened them and saw another familiar green pair fixed on him with such intensity that his mouth answered before his mind could:

“Fine. I’ll stay. What do I have to do?” 

*

Malfoy told them what he’d been working on. He described in unyielding detail the complications of the Vanishing Cabinet, his elaborate scheme with the mead, his less-well thought out one with the necklace, and with a semi-glance at Harry, how the Curse had taken over his body after he’d used the _ Sectumsempra _on him. Harry had taken that moment to try and get a glimpse of Malfoy’s chest in hopes it wasn’t still slashed open, but the thin black robe covered it. 

When he was finished, he gave a long sigh and fell back into the office chair, letting his head hang and his nearly-white hair fall into his face. Narcissa sat by like a stone, her hands crossed in her lap and her icy gaze fixed dead ahead. If Harry knew anything about the Malfoys, it was that her expression spelled _ panic. _

Dumbledore tapped his black fingers against his desk in deep thought. 

“Yes, you must fix the cabinet.” He said finally. 

Malfoy raised his head. “Excuse me?” He said, his voice rather high pitched. 

Harry was worried he’d misheard him too. 

“You must fix the cabinet,” Dumbledore repeated, “And Harry will help you catch up on the classes you’ve missed.”

They shared a glance. “No.” They both said at once. 

“Draco, if you are going to refrain from looking suspicious, then Voldemort must not be given any indication that you were missing for such a long time. The Cabinet will be your top priority, but your schoolwork has to come second if you are to carry on as normal.” 

Malfoy’s tone was faint, “The Dark Lord doesn’t read my homework.” 

Harry would have laughed, but he guessed the situation probably didn’t call for it. 

“Even so.” Said Dumbledore brightly without further explanation. “You are to go back to your usual dorms and your usual life”-

“What will I tell everyone about where I’ve been?” 

“Tell them you were recovering from your spectacular bathroom duel.” Dumbledore declared, “Professor Snape has already had a part in spreading that rumour so I’m sure it’ll do the trick.” 

Narcissa hadn’t moved. “And you expect me to sit by and - and lie to my husband about what Draco is really doing?”

Dumbledore faced her. “Tell him what you wish, Narcissa. But if that is what it takes to protect your son… assuming you still wish to, of course.”

“Of course!” 

“Then so be it. You have lied before. I’m sure the action won’t come all too unnaturally.” 

Harry waited for someone to argue, but they didn’t. They sat there in shocked silence, taking in their new situation with despair. That couldn’t be it. Harry stared between them all. “Sir…” He began.

“Yes, Harry?” Said Dumbledore, already standing. 

Harry floundered. 

“Salazar, spare me,” Malfoy breathed, and Harry wanted to punch him again.

“Won’t he need to transform again?” He asked, deliberately referring to Malfoy as if he wasn’t there. “Isn’t there a potion for that or something?”

“Ah, yes! A potion!” Malfoy exclaimed, dripping with sarcasm, “Why on Earth didn’t we think of a _ potion_, mother?!” He looked manic, dressed in just his robe, blond hair falling about his gaunt face and hollowed eyes. Harry tried not to stare. 

Dumbledore ignored him. “He will. And may I suggest transforming more regularly to keep the Curse from hurting you, Draco?” 

There was a pause. “Yes,” said Malfoy through gritted teeth.

“You may use the Forest,” Said Dumbledore, pacing around the desk and heading for the door, “And you may take Harry with you if you wish. After all, you seemed to enjoy having him there before.” 

A pink blush coloured Malfoy’s pale features and he scowled. “I’d rather die.” 

“Likewise.” Harry muttered.

Dumbledore only smiled. “Excellent. Draco, you may go down to the Hospital Wing before everyone else wakes up and I will summon you both later to arrange your schedules. But for now, time for bed I think.” 

*

Draco had been convinced he’d been given his daily dose of earth shattering shocks for the day, but his mother proved him wrong as they were led down to the Hospital Wing by Dumbledore. 

“Your father isn’t in Azkaban anymore.” She told him quietly.

Potter had been dismissed back to his own dorm by this point, much to Draco’s relief, because he stopped in the middle of the corridor, mouth agape.

_ “What? _The Ministry freed him?” 

Narcissa slowed, and Dumbledore turned at the commotion. 

“Not exactly.” She said at length, lips pursed. 

“Ah, you haven’t heard.” Dumbledore mused, “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t have.” 

Draco ground his teeth, trying his best to ignore the old man. “Is father here?” 

“No.” Said Narcissa. “And he doesn’t know I am either. I’d like for us to keep it that way. His mind isn’t well equipped to deal with this turn of events.” She threw a poisonous glance Dumbledore’s way. “Not yet.” 

There were secrets, deals, double-crossing and false-promises kept around every corner. And in his own family no less. Draco was too tired to argue. 

“Alright,” He agreed, limping forward. “How is he?” 

Narcissa inhaled and Draco already knew from that look alone how his father was. 

“He’s... getting on.” 

_Getting on_. What a funny phrase, Draco thought as they turned into the quiet hospital wing. Technically they were all just _getting on_, weren’t they? Getting On should have been the motto on the Malfoy family crest. Getting on _what _or _who_ was Draco’s real question, and as for his father he could only assume he was trying to get _back _on the Dark Lord’s good side. The existence of The Dark Lord’s supposed ‘good side’ begged a whole new set of questions entirely, and Draco certainly wasn’t ready to think about those yet. Madam Pomfrey turned white at the sight of Draco - he was used to it by now - and he felt like a zombie as she instructed him into a bed behind a curtain and threw in some pyjamas for him to change into. 

As he was undressing, he heard Dumbledore and his mother whispering. But he couldn’t make out the words. Really, he didn’t care to. The sooner this whole malarky was over and they could move to a remote island on the equator, the better, he thought. Shoving his foot into the pyjama pants was difficult. His ankle spiked with pain at the slightest bend.

Madam Pomfrey told him it was perfectly fine, to which he glowered and insisted it still hurt, but rather than help him the woman simply tutted and poured out a shot of Dreamless Sleep. Draco doubted he’d need it as he slid under the warm covers - _ fuck, he’d missed getting into a real bed - _but he swallowed it down anyway and sank into merciful oblivion before his head hit the pillow. 

* * *

As Draco awoke the next day, confused and groggy and sore, he decided he’d done quite enough waking up in unexpected places over the past twenty-four hours. It was when he learned _ what _had woken him up that he was stabbed with his first pang of irritation. Someone was crumpling packets of Merlin only knew what in the bed next door, and a chatter of laughing voices sprung forth seconds later. His curtains were still shut, but Draco was filled with such an urge to bring down his noisy perpetrators that he heaved himself out of bed (forgetting about his painful ankle and wincing sharply as he put his weight on it) and yanked back the curtain. 

Three pairs of anxious eyes swivelled his way, one of them by now he was all too used to seeing. 

“Oh.” He said, his voice coming out even harsher than last night. “It’s you.” 

Potter and Granger were gathered around the Weasel’s bed as the latter noisily opened a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, but they all stopped when they saw him. 

“Yes.” Said Potter, standing and puffing out his chest with unnecessary pretension. “It’s us.” If he was spoiling for a fight, he’d be disappointed. 

Weasley was opening and closing his gob like a drowning fish. “He’s _ here_.” 

“And he can hear you.” Draco sniped, “Far too well.” 

Granger was staring at him with the face of someone who was much too aware of the situation given she hadn’t been in the room for any of last night’s conversation. 

Draco directed his glare at Potter. “You told them.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Of course I did.” He hadn’t backed down from his position. Trying to stand tall didn’t suit Potter. He looked much less ridiculous when he was a head shorter than Draco, which was saying something. 

Instead of reacting with anger or even sarcasm, Draco could only bring himself to sigh. 

“Right. Of course. Classic. Shouldn’t have expected less.” He yawned, turning to limp back to bed and try and sleep until the end of the decade when Potter piped up:

“What’s wrong with your leg?” 

Draco half-faced him. 

“It hasn’t woken up yet.” He replied sarcastically. 

Potter frowned, the joke lost on him. Draco wished he hadn’t bothered. 

“You were limping yesterday, too.” He commented. 

Draco refrained from snorting. “Nice to know those hideous glasses of yours are working, scarhead.”

It was a weak insult, Draco knew, but he was grateful for the silence that followed. 

After shutting the curtains and falling ungracefully back under the covers, Dumbledore’s Golden Trio lowered their voices to a whisper, which in many ways was worse. Draco contented himself by remembering their dumbfounded faces as he’d revealed himself. It had almost been worth it. Madam Pomfrey came to check up on him soon after. He’d been too exhausted earlier to give a thought to the state of his chest - Potter cursing him in the bathroom seemed like it had been months and months ago - but when he unbuttoned his pyjama top to inspect the damage, he was met with yet another shock. Raised white scars lined his chest in fine, criss-crossing streaks. Thanks to Snape’s and Madam Pomfrey’s healing, they appeared years old. But they would never go away. Magic could be cruel, Pomfrey said, and Draco couldn’t agree more. He gazed down at his chest in a state of odd detachment. He found he didn’t care one bit about the appearance of his body. If anything, he felt separate from it. In only two months he’d gained two marks that would stay with him for life. 

A few hours went by before the headmaster graced Draco with his presence again, summoning him to his office. Draco’s school robes were brought down for him, and he dressed in funereal silence. The Hospital Wing was empty - the Weasel had been discharged this very afternoon and Draco was next. He was grateful there was no mirror. Putting on his uniform felt like a sentence, the months ahead stretching out before him in a riddle of uncertainty. 

Unfortunately, when Draco got to the office, Potter was there too. They barely acknowledged one another’s presence before hearing what the headmaster’s plans for them were.

Aside from his timetabled lessons, Dumbledore advised Draco should take at least two hours every day or night to go to the Room of Requirement and work on fixing the cabinet. Every other day, Potter was to accompany him and catch him up on Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration and Potions - as for his other subjects, Draco would have to work to catch up himself or find someone else to help him. So much for that, he thought. He had no friends in his other classes. The only person who fell close on the spectrum of ‘friendship’ was Astoria Greengrass in Arithmancy. 

Draco cringed at the prospect of asking her for help. There was only so much of her he could take. 

As Dumbledore walked them through what was to be their new routine, Draco caught a glimpse of Potter clenching his jaw, apparently doing his best not to argue. At least they were in the same boat.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at the Gryffindor’s withdrawn silence. “Harry, you gave your word you would help us with the Dragon, and you’ve done a wonderful job so far. I do hope your gallancy hasn’t expired now that you know _ who _your Dragon is.” 

_ Your Dragon_. Ha. Draco refrained from smirking. The headmaster turned to him.

“As for you, I expect a full report on your progress every week.” 

“With my Death Eater mission, sir, or my school work?” Draco ventured innocently, knowing full well what the headmaster meant. 

Dumbledore did not rise to the bait. “Both, if you wish. Your mother recommended to me that you transform once a fortnight to keep your Curse sated, would you agree?” 

Draco shifted uncomfortably, lowering his gaze. “Yes. I suppose.” 

“Good. Harry”-

“_I don’t need him with me _.” Draco interjected.

Both looked at him. Potter narrowed his eyes. 

“I was going to ask Harry how this schedule will interfere with his Quidditch practice, but I’ll take note.” Dumbledore told him after a pause. 

Draco’s face exploded with heat and he furiously swallowed back his outburst, unsuccessfully shrugging it off. 

“I don’t care. I want him out of my way as much as possible.” 

“Fine with me.” Potter said. 

“Fine.” Draco confirmed. 

*

Harry arrived at the Room of Requirement the next night at eight o’clock, as agreed on the schedule for their first meeting. Despite everything, his stomach churned with nerves as he clutched his books beneath his arm and waited for the door to open at his wish. 

_ Malfoy_, he thought, _ take me to Malfoy and the Vanishing Cabinet_. 

The doors materialized. He had no idea how this would possibly go down. The idea of studying harmoniously with Malfoy sounded ridiculous in theory. He only hoped it would succeed in practice. 

Harry pushed open the door, realizing as a musty smell invaded his nostrils and towers and towers of lost objects loomed before him that he was in the same room where he and Ginny had hidden the Half-Blood Prince’s book. The memory of that night stood stark and monochrome in Harry’s memory, and the protagonist of this memory stood at the other end of the monumental chamber, his back turned and his wand raised as pieces of the Vanishing Cabinet hovered in orbit around his slender, blond form. 

Harry cleared his throat. 

The Vanishing Cabinet’s components crashed to the stone floor, and Malfoy lowered his wand with a huff. 

“You distracted me.” He barked, his hoarse voice echoing amidst the towers of junk surrounding them. 

“It wasn’t on purpose.” Harry grumbled, striding into the room with his head down. There were no real surfaces to work on, so he fashioned one by pushing a moth-eaten sofa which had already fallen on its side completely upside down and slamming his books on top of it. 

“I’m ready.” He said impatiently. 

Malfoy _ still _wouldn’t look at him. 

“Well, I’m not.” The Slytherin replied with more ice than the Great Lake in December. 

_ For Godric’s sake_, he _ had _to make things difficult. Harry had been a fool to ever have thought this could go smoothly. 

“I can’t wait all night!” He argued, “_This _was the agreed time and you should”-

“I shouldn’t have to do _ anything_.” Malfoy whipped around, fury lighting a fire in his cold, grey eyes. “Not for you.” 

They glowered at one another, neither backing down until Harry finally said:

“Fine. Have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when you fail your fucking NEWTs.” 

And with that, he marched back down the aisle, coughing as he inhaled the dust he’d disturbed, thoroughly regretting ever getting involved with the Dragon _ or _with Draco Malfoy. He didn’t look back to check if Malfoy was watching him leave, even though for reasons he desperately tried not to think about, he wanted to. So much for succeeding in practice.


	8. All Gone

With two hours to go before his weekly update report for Dumbledore, Draco wasn’t feeling confident. It was week one, and so far his progress on both the Cabinet and his schoolwork had been (putting it generously) minimal. After their argument, Draco was sure he’d driven Potter off for good, leaving him to work on the Cabinet in solitude, but no. Potter was as stubborn as his word and he’d turned up every night at eight o’clock on the dot to slam down his disorderly pile of notes on the upside down sofa before striding right back out again, only to collect them three hours later without so much as a peek at Draco. 

Draco had flicked through them on the first night, scoffing at what he’d seen. Scribbles in illegible writing that suggested a subpar understanding in Potions and Transfiguration at best were haphazardly scrawled across the leaves of parchment. His Defence Against the Dark Arts ones were admittedly rather good, Draco couldn’t help but notice, but Potter had no excuse to be lacking in that department; he’d survived the Killing Curse before he’d stopped wearing a nappy, after all. 

Overall, the week had been a failure. Draco hadn’t been at all surprised when his (ex) friends paid him barely any mind. Theo had become a thunder cloud, shooting Draco dirty looks at every opportunity. Blaise was flighty and only glanced his way when he thought Draco wasn’t looking. On the second night in the dorm, he’d approached him.

“How are you?”

“Fine.” Draco had said, sat at his desk pretending to be reading when in actuality he was having another existential crisis. 

Blaise shifted from foot to foot. “Recovered, then? Snape said it was a nasty curse.”

Draco feigned a yawn. “It was. But I’m fine.” 

“You were gone for a long time.” 

“Hmm.” 

“We thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I can only imagine Theo bawling over my absence.” Draco had drawled, to which Blaise had frowned. 

“It hasn’t been easy for us, you know.” 

Draco had had a nasty feeling Blaise was trying to get him to open up while the rest of his roommates lay in their beds pretending not to eavesdrop. 

“Really?” Asked Draco in the most bored tone he could conceive. He turned a page to add to the effect, but Blaise had always been one to see through him. 

The other boy sighed. “No need to be a dick, Malfoy.” 

“No need to be a sop, Zabini. If I’d known you’d missed me that much I would have sent a postcard and a lock of my hair.” 

And that had been that. All of their parents had connections with the Dark Lord. None of his past friends were safe to talk to anymore, Draco realized. He would have to remain distant and aloof under the constant facade that he was enjoying being the only one with official Death Eater status among them. They must all know by now. It was the only explanation for Theo’s poisonous looks. Jealousy didn’t look good on him. Draco wanted to tell them all to run - to abandon their heritage and move somewhere far away until the air was clear. But that would make him a hypocrite. 

For now, he considered every moment in his dorm as a moment in enemy territory. It sounded a lot more exciting in his head than it actually was. By now, none of them bothered to talk to him. They haunted the dorm like ghosts. It was never full, even at night. There was always someone missing. And no one dared ask why. 

It was mid-day and he was skipping Transfiguration to sit in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, staring at its dimly glowing core with the same level of wrought frustration as he had been since he’d started meddling with the fucking thing. He’d studied the pages of the book in his lap so thoroughly that the spine was beginning to break, along with his resolve. He had to have _ something _ to show for himself, or he’d fail on every account. It was still impossible to think of himself as working with Dumbledore and Potter’s lot. He wasn’t one of _ them_. He’d been forced into this by circumstance alone, but he wasn’t in league with the Dark Lord anymore either. He suspected he never had been. It was all too clear where his mother stood now. His father on the other-hand… Draco was terrified of seeing him again, as if merely looking into his eyes would reveal his betrayal to the Dark Lord and his name. The dread that followed from this thought compelled Draco to stagger to his feet. He couldn’t afford to reveal himself as a traitor. He’d already exposed himself as both a Dragon and an assassin to his former enemies, and they’d been forgiving. Too forgiving. It was weakness, on their part, to show mercy. But Draco wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was alive and being given the chance to save himself from oblivion. But it would take work. Lots of it. 

He directed his wand at the pulsating sphere suspended opposite him, breathing hard. He closed his eyes and started to dig within himself, holding the image of the Cabinet’s core in his mind as he searched for his own. So far he was only met with the flaming spike of his Curse, writhing with impatience in the pit of his stomach. 

“Not you…” He whispered, gripping his wand harder, “I need to find _ me_.” 

The book’s warnings were explicit on how dangerous tangling their cores would be. He _ had _to be confident in the stability of his own before attempting to fix the Cabinet’s, but it was proving to be rather difficult when he couldn’t even find it. He tried to picture dismantling himself, peeling himself back layer by layer like pieces of the Cabinet, but all that came to mind was the sensation of Potter’s vile curse slicing open his skin, layer by layer. He opened his eyes with a tormented huff, swiping his wand through the air to put the Cabinet back together. The urge to break down sobbing crashed over him in a wave of cold anguish, tugging on his chest and forming a lump in his throat. He suppressed it with three long, deep breaths, taking a moment to stroke the pendant tucked beneath his collar. His mother had left the day after his interrogation. Draco kept waiting for her to be disappointed. He kept waiting for her to tell him he’d failed them all, and how he’d ruined his family’s life. Instead she held his hand and pushed his hair back, kissing him between the eyes and telling him,

“I love you. Stay safe. I’ll be back soon. I love you.” 

He didn’t deserve her love. 

*

Ginny had been angrier than usual as of late, and Harry had been far too distracted to realize it until she’d almost snapped his broom across her knee during their last practice a couple of hours before he was due to go to Dumbledore’s office for his weekly meeting. He’d been dreading the prospect so had been distracted all practice, and Ginny had lost it. 

As if being screeched at from across the pitch by his best friend’s younger sister hadn’t been demeaning enough, she’d gone on to threaten him with one of her lethal Bat-Bogey Hexes. 

As the rest of the team slouched through the rain to the changing rooms, Harry pulled her aside.

“All offence meant, Ginny, what is up with you? That was embarrassing.” He demanded. 

“Yes, it _ was _embarrassing,” She agreed. “I’ve never seen you fly so poorly. You’re a mess, Harry.” 

“I’m also the Captain of this team so unless you want to tell me what’s going on”-

“Dean and I broke up,” She told him without so much as a blink. “So excuse me if I’m having a shitty day.”

Harry backed off. He’d managed to forget about her pending relationship issues what with his recent Dragon dilemma, and all. Nevertheless, he felt guilty for being so harsh.

“Oh… sorry.” 

Ginny sniffed, kicking up chunks of the muddy pitch with her boot as they began to meander toward shelter.

“Don’t be. Had to be done.”

Harry grimaced. He was shit at talking to girls at the best of times. Except Hermione, but they never really talked about relationship stuff. He experienced an unpleasant flashback to his confusion with Cho Chang in Hogsmeade last year and cringed even more. 

“You look like you just swallowed an acid pop.” Ginny gave him a side-smirk and punched him on the arm. “Don’t worry, I won’t cry.” 

He exhaled, “Okay, good.” _ Shit _, “I mean - um. You can if you want. I’m always here.” 

Rather than burst into tears as Harry feared, however, she threw back her head and barked a laugh.

“Merlin’s Beard, Harry. You do come out with some monumental bollocks. I hope you never make Minister for Magic.” 

“I won’t ever _ run _for Minister for Magic.” He replied, laughing with uncomfortable relief. “But seriously, though… sorry for today. I guess we’re both having a weird time of it.” 

Ginny cocked her head, ducking underneath the stands and stopping before they reached the changing rooms. 

“What’s up with you? Romilda Vane trying to lace your pumpkin juice with love potion again?” 

Harry shivered. “_No _… just… you know…” How could he begin to explain the oddness of the past week? “Voldemort stuff.” 

Ginny blinked before cracking a grin. “Men, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry huffed, thinking of one male in particular he wished he understood. And it wasn’t Voldemort. “Men.” 

Saturday nights were supposed to be spent with his best friends, indoors, playing exploding snap or sharing a late-night filched case of Butterbeer around the fire - _ not _entering Dumbledore’s office only to be met with the the distrustful scowl of his former rival and now supposed ally. 

Malfoy looked terrible. If he wasn’t wearing his robes, Harry would have been more likely to take him for a long-term patient at St. Mungos. After making brief and awkward eye-contact, they desperately tried to ignore each other as Dumbledore clasped his hands and peered at them both. 

“Well? Who wants to start?” 

_ Not me_, Harry thought. He’d been avoiding Malfoy all week, let alone helping him catch up on work. But it wasn’t as if Malfoy had tried to stop him. He’d pissed him off on purpose. If anyone had to answer for this crime, it was not him. 

He saw Malfoy puff out his chest in his peripherals, sticking out his chin. 

“I need to fix the Cabinet’s magical core.” He said firmly. Well, his voice had improved at least. It was lacking its snide edge, but it was clear. He really was human again. Harry tried hard to picture his Dragon - the smooth silver scales overlaid on top of pounds of muscle, his eyes wide and clear and trusting. Malfoy’s were closed off, his frame slight and slender. There was no _ way. _Harry had seen him transform and he still couldn’t believe it. 

Dumbledore tapped his chin. “I see. And have you accessed it?” Malfoy nodded. “What is its state?”

“Deteriorated, as far as I can tell.” Malfoy said, faltering on the last word. He shot a piercing look at Harry. “And I’m attending as many classes as possible.” 

“You missed two Transfiguration lessons this week and one Defence Against the Dark Arts on Monday.” Dumbledore observed, holding a sheet of parchment that presumably recorded Malfoy’s spotty attendance. The Slytherin lowered his chin. 

“Yes. I did.” 

Dumbledore turned to Harry - the moment he’d been dreading on his lips. 

“And you have been able to provide Draco with sufficient materials to catch up?”

“I’ve provided them, yes, professor.” It wasn’t a lie. Malfoy gave a faint snort. So much for getting away with it. “But, we haven’t exactly been able to, um… coordinate our schedules.” 

Dumbledore’s brow lifted inquisitively. “Oh?” 

Neither one of them spoke. This was the second time Harry had been made to feel like an eleven year old in the presence of Malfoy and the headmaster. 

Dumbledore sat down heavily. “This won’t do. I know you have your differences” - 

-“_ Differences _”- Malfoy interjected with heavy sarcasm,

-”but you _ must _ lay them to rest. This is not about petty squabbles of the past. You are both almost men. Act as such, and our plans will continue smoothly. We are running out of time.” The last sentence was particularly pointed at Harry and he _ knew _Dumbledore was hinting at Slughorn’s memory. “When you leave this office, I want you to do so with clear minds and clear hearts. Help each other.”

Harry wanted to ask how Malfoy could _ possibly _help him when he noticed the other boy wince and grip the desk. He was standing on one leg, like a flamingo. 

“You _ still _haven’t got your leg fixed?” He found himself getting wound up. 

“I can’t fix it, scarhead! Pomfrey says it isn’t broken.” Malfoy seethed back. 

Dumbledore rounded the desk and ordered Malfoy to sit. He did so with reluctant grumbling. 

“The pain just won’t stop,” he fumed, as though it was their fault. “It’s been like this since…” He pale throat bobbed as he gulped, “since I transformed back.” 

That was the first time Harry had heard him reference his transformation outright. 

“The Dragon’s tail was broken.” Harry recalled, unwilling to acknowledge Malfoy as the Dragon. 

“So?” Malfoy contended, “It shouldn’t affect my human body.” 

“Have you ever heard of the phrase psychosomatic?” Asked Dumbledore, inspecting Malfoy’s ankle without touching it.

The Slytherin narrowed his eyes. Harry interpreted his stony silence as a firm _ no. _

“Pain we encounter in other places can sometimes transfer to somewhere we wouldn’t expect.” Dumbledore explained, “For example, when we lose a loved one we feel it as physical pain. The mind is a powerful thing, Draco.”

Harry knew all too well the pain he was describing. He found his hand flying to his chest before he could stop it, the remembered sensation of every tendon and bone tearing open as he realized Sirius had gone causing an ache to spread through his ribcage. Malfoy shot him an inquisitive glance. Clearly he’d never experienced such pain. Harry would never wish it on anyone, not even Malfoy.

“It isn’t that.” Malfoy protested, shaking his head. “Maybe… maybe it has something to do with my tail, but… it is _ real_. It feels broken.” He sucked in a sharp breath as he twitched it. 

Fawkes flapped his wings from his perch, and Harry had an idea. He met Dumbledore’s eye.

“May I, professor?” 

Dumbledore gestured, “By all means, Harry.” 

Malfoy scowled. “What are you doing?” 

Harry ignored him, and paced to the perch.

“Hello, Fawkes.” He said fondly. The firebird inclined his head and gave a gentle squark. Harry held out his arm. “Would you mind?” 

He had no idea how much of human language Phoenix’s could understand, but it must have been enough for him to get the message for the next moment Fawkes had hopped from his perch and onto Harry’s arm. 

Harry took them both to where Malfoy was sat, his arctic gaze fixed fearfully on the bird. 

“He won’t hurt you.” Harry reassured, and he realized with a jolt he was using the same voice he’d used to soothe the Dragon. Malfoy’s eyes responded with understanding, because moments like this had passed between them before. Just… differently. Harry made himself look away as he lowered Fawkes closer to the floor. 

The Phoenix leaned forward over Malfoy’s ankle, and cried. 

*

Draco wanted to pull away. He felt exposed and laid bare as Fawkes’ hot tears dripped one by one onto his ankle. But the second they did, the pain began to seep away.

“_Oh_,” He exhaled before he could help it. When his ankle was hot with tears and the agony had all but gone, Fawkes blinked up at him with innocent black eyes. Should he _ thank _it? It seemed ludicrous, so he directed his gratitude to the bookcase behind Dumbledore’s desk instead.

“Thank you.” He said stiffly. 

He rotated his foot as Potter stood, taking the Phoenix with him. In his panic, Draco had forgotten all about the properties of Phoenix tears. He became aware that the headmaster was studying him. Draco wasn’t stupid. He knew what the old man was thinking.

“I’m not one of you.” He whispered as Potter was placing Fawkes back on his perch. “I won’t forget how you interrogated me. You treated me like an animal.” 

“All actions have consequences, Draco.”

Draco allowed himself a tiny, humourless smirk. “Do yours, professor?” 

Dumbledore’s forever-twinkling blue eyes darkened. He placed his hands behind his back.

“They certainly do.” 

Dumbledore turned back to his desk, and as he did Draco was met with the sight of the man’s blackened hand. He bit back the urge to ask what he’d done to deserve such a curse and stood, regaining his posture as Potter rejoined them. 

Draco spoke before the headmaster could. 

“I’m going straight back to the Room of Requirement.” He turned to Potter, making an effort to keep his expression blank, “If you wish to join me at eight o’clock to study, I will be ready by then.” 

Potter gave a startled blink. “O-oh. Okay.”

“If there’s nothing else…?” Draco waited only a second, “Great. I’ll get back to work, then.”

He strode (on graciously balanced feet) out of the office, ignoring the filthy looks from lingering students in the corridors until he reached the seventh floor, only allowing his shoulders to fall once he was inside the Room of Requirement. The suffocating fervour of a thousand lost things suffused his lungs and he had to close his eyes as he leant against the closed doors, sliding down them until he was sitting on the cold, hard flagstones. 

Of all the piles of crap in this room, Draco felt like the biggest one. He couldn’t discern one feeling from the next. Between the humiliation, anger and downright stress of it all, he was a knotted tangle of every kind of anxiety in the book. And Potter wasn’t helping.

He started as the door he was leaning against began to open. He scrambled to his feet, ready to dart behind a junk pile and hide, but it was only the subject of his angst. Draco brushed a swathe of hair out of his eyes, standing up straight and trying not to seem as though he’d just jumped out of his wits. 

“What are you doing here?” He snapped with more intensity than he’d meant to. 

Potter eased his way inside, closing the door shut. He watched Draco uncertainly. 

“I thought I’d come early. I have nothing else to do.” 

“No dogsbody errands for Dumbledore?” Draco taunted.

“...No.” 

“No transfigured seagulls to catch?” 

For a moment Potter looked confused before his features rearranged themselves into horrible understanding. Draco hadn’t meant to reference their time in the cave, but it had been the first remark to jump into his head. He waited for Potter to start going on about lies and betrayal, but instead he rolled his eyes and glared at the floor. 

“I was sort of hoping you’d forgotten about that.” 

Draco sniggered, his derision aiding in concealing his irrational relief that Potter hadn’t shouted at him again. 

“I can’t decide what was worse. The seagull theory or the one where you decided I was a deformed boggart.” 

“It was a valid theory!” Potter argued, notes fluttering as he flapped his arms. His face blushed beet red and his mouth formed an unmistakable pout. 

Draco couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. It was nice to redirect a little of his own insecurity. 

“I doubt even Longbottom could have come up with something so brilliantly moronic.” 

_ Cue Potter defending his friends _ -

“Probably not,” He laughed, resigned, scratching the back of his head and mussing up his mop even more. Draco stared, waiting for the insults to begin. Instead, an awkward silence fell thick and heavy between them. 

Potter coughed. “Anyway. I can leave if you’re not finished.” 

Draco pondered this for less than a second. “I’m finished for the day.” He hadn’t had many more plans for the Cabinet tonight anyway besides glowering at it in exasperation and possibly crying. He’d had quite enough of both for this week. Soon he’d be competing with Moaning Myrtle for her title if this went on for much longer. 

Potter’s gaze angled toward the Cabinet. 

“That thing is hideous.” He commented.

Draco took personal offence to this. “It’s an antique magical object.” 

“It’s still ugly as fuck. What’s wrong with it anyway?” 

“If I knew I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Draco spat through gritted teeth. Merlin, Potter’s lack of knowledge on anything remotely important to Wizarding culture was tragic. 

Draco released a pent up sigh and turned his back on Potter to storm toward the upturned sofa. He sent the dusty old sheet he’d been using to conceal the Cabinet up and over it with a swish of his wand, hiding the '_hideous_’ object from view. He couldn’t stand to hear any more of Potter’s ignorant ramblings on things he knew nothing about. 

Potter followed silently, placing his books and notes on the make-shift surface with a little less force than he had done the past few nights. 

“Chairs?” Draco prompted, nodding to a matching moth-eaten armchair behind Potter and a stool to his left. 

“Oh. Yeah. _ Accio chair!_” 

Crashes echoed from across the chamber as the miscellaneous chair in question Potter had summoned flew towards them through precarious towers of rubbish. There were a few painful seconds of clattering and smashing before a spindly oak number clattered to the floor at Potter’s feet. Draco pointedly plucked the stool from Potter’s side and sat on it. 

Potter spotted the armchair and huffed. 

“Maybe if you’d said _ Accio armchair _ or _ Accio stool _, you wouldn’t have had to wake half the school with your blunder and the furniture would have”- 

“Yes, alright. I get it.” Potter interjected, and Draco truly had to stifle a laugh. It was obvious how hard he was trying not to ignite a fight. Perhaps he was taking Dumbledore’s parting advice and was attempting to adopt a clear heart and mind. How sickeningly Gryffindor of him. 

“Just so we’re on the same page, I still think you’re a bastard.” 

Or perhaps not. 

“The feeling is mutual, Potter. So. Potions first?” 

* * *

The next two hours were testing, to put it lightly. Potter’s patchy knowledge on Potions and Transfiguration meant Draco ended up teaching _ him _half the time. They didn’t even get to Defence Against the Dark Arts before Draco snapped their books shut and threw his quill down. 

“I’m about to spell you blind.” 

“Your mum did that.” Potter mumbled, closing his book too. 

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Draco carded both hands through his hair. “Is there _ anything _you covered in the time I was missing that you feel even slightly confident talking about? Your notes are incomprehensible.” 

Potter was red-faced again and his jade eyes glistened with spite. 

“Well, forgive me if I was spending the whole time trying to come up with ways to free you! I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known what you _ really _were.” 

Draco gave a long-winded laugh. “Oh, here we go! This again. I was wondering when you’d lose it. Only took you five fucking seconds.” 

“I don’t have to be here!” Potter yelled, standing. 

Draco stood too. He couldn’t sit there and let Potter be taller than him. 

“Then why are you?” 

“Because…!”

“Because Dumbledore told you to?” Draco filled in the blank with a scoff. “Of-bloody-course. Isn’t that the only reason either of us are here? Why don’t we both just admit we’re both sitting soundly in the old man’s pocket instead of pretending we’re doing anything brave or useful?” 

Potter’s expression had gone from hateful to bemused. 

“Pretending?” He echoed, leaning across the beat-up sofa to make his point, _ “Pretending? _Malfoy, you were literally hiding in a cave pretending to be a Dragon”-

-“I was a Dragon!” Draco cried, “Am. I-I _ am… _ and if you’re disgusted by the fact you can fuck off, Potter. I don’t care.” 

Potter recoiled, and once again his face was unreadable. Draco hated not knowing what he was thinking. 

“You think I’m disgusted with you because you’re a Dragon?” Potter said quietly, the crackling air between them deflating. 

“Because I’m a Death Eater, then. Fine. Either way. It doesn’t matter. It's evident how you feel about me.” Draco hated how childish he sounded. 

Potter was shaking his head. “Even then…” He looked away. “Yes, I hated you for being a Death Eater at first, I’ll admit it. A huge part of me still does. But after I saw you and your mum and after it became obvious how you didn’t have a choice…” He trailed off. 

Draco’s heart was pounding, his Curse flaring through every pore.

“I’ve been trying to understand, Malfoy.” Potter said at last, his eyes finding Draco’s. “But some things... I just can’t.” 

Did he _ want _ to understand? He sounded like he’d given this a lot of thought. Draco could hardly conceive of it. Potter didn’t _ care _about him - not as a person. He wanted him in prison, sure. It had been another of his dark wizard man-hunts, all this time, and he’d finally got what he wanted so why wasn’t he laughing in Draco’s face? 

“What things?” Draco asked at last. 

Potter was still, inspecting him with reproach. 

“We’re just too different.” He murmured cryptically after an immeasurable length of time. 

Draco wasn’t sure why the quiet remark hurt, but it did. Potter wouldn’t even give him a chance. He’d made him ask and now he was rejecting the conversation. It wasn’t just irritating, it was downright rude. 

“You only just figured that out, have you?” Draco sneered, hoping his feelings weren’t showing on his face. An uncomfortable squirm had settled firmly in his abdomen, and it wasn’t shifting. It wound tighter the more Draco held Potter’s eyes, so he made himself look away.

*

Harry wished there was a spell to make him shut up. Tonight could have been easy - well, as easy as possible when it came to Malfoy - if he hadn’t started spilling his guts about _ understanding_ and _feelings _and the stupid Dragon. He’d dismissed himself shortly after, unable to bear the terse silence following their argument. 

It wasn’t like their usual fights; charged with menace and an itching desire to punch one another senseless. No, there had been something real in this one, and the hurt that had flashed across Malfoy’s gaunt features only highlighted the fact. 

As usual, he waited for the common room to empty before telling Ron and Hermione about it. 

“Git.” Ron said bluntly. 

Hermione gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You were right with what you told him, Harry. You _ are _too different.” 

“I don’t get why Dumbledore is punishing you by making you study with him.” Said Ron, giving him a sympathetic grimace. “S’not like it’s your fault.” 

“No,” Harry agreed, “But I _ did _go against his orders. I went looking for the Dragon, remember? I lied to him.” 

“And us.” Hermione reminded him unhelpfully.

“By omission,” Harry argued, “You didn’t ask. And I’m telling you everything now!” He gazed into the flames, reflecting on the decisions that had brought him to this point. “Ugh… I just wish I hadn’t…” 

“Become obsessed with Malfoy?” Ron snorted.

“Isolated yourself and befriended a Dragon?” Hermione followed. 

Harry could pinpoint exactly the moment his regrets had begun, and it was the instant his Dragon had transformed into the unconscious body of Draco Malfoy. He had no regrets about his time with the Dragon at all, and that was what bothered him.

“Both. Neither. Pick one.” He said instead, hauling himself out of the squishy armchair. “I’m off to bed.” 

As Harry dragged himself up the stairs, he heard the pair laughing. Probably not at him, he was sure, but he felt unjustifiably separate from them all the same. 

The negative cloud of thoughts stuck with him until he reached the dorm, and it didn’t disperse fast enough for him to react to the moment he’d unwittingly walked in on. 

All he caught was a glimpse of his dormmates sitting on one bed, their faces awfully close to one another before they broke apart and he heard a whispered, _ “Oh, fuck.” _

Harry didn’t put two and two together until Dean was standing, his dark eyes alight with panic while Seamus buried his face in his pillow. 

“Um.” Said Harry.

Dean marched toward him, “It’s - please don’t tell anyone.” 

Harry was already shaking his head. “I won’t, but… this is why you and Ginny broke up, isn’t it?” 

Dean’s frown deepened. “Harry, no offence but this is really none of your business.” 

It was all happening so fast, his thoughts colliding with one another.

“Sure, but does she know?” 

Seamus groaned from the bed. Dean’s jaw was set. 

“Harry”-

Harry had no idea why his veins flooded with heat, or why he suddenly felt such an irrational pulse of anger. _He_ _couldn’t stand any more lies_. 

“Does she _ know_, Dean?” He pressed.

The other boy inhaled deeply before answering. “No. But however wrong you think that is, I’ll never forgive you if you tell her.” 

Harry’s mouth had gone dry. _ Calm down_, he thought desperately. 

“I won’t tell her.” He promised Dean, “But you should.” 

Unable to bear the crumbling look of panic on Dean’s face, he turned away and strode to his own bed. The silence in the dorm followed him, and he felt both pairs of eyes fixed to his back. 

“We’re sorry you had to see that, Harry.” Came Seamus’ unsure voice. “We - we’re still figuring things out.” 

Harry nodded. He couldn’t understand himself, or why his heart was thudding with this unexplainable unspent rage. It wasn’t directed at Dean _ or _Seamus. Not at all. It was just like last year before he’d realized how connected his mind was with Voldemort’s, and his angry outbursts had sent him reeling. It felt just the same. 

“Harry,” Said Dean, his tone level now the shock of being found out was over, “You’re a decent bloke, alright? I don’t want this to fuck up our friendship.” 

Harry faced them. “It won’t.” 

They looked at each other. “So… you don’t mind that we…?” Seamus began. 

Harry sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “Guys, it’s really okay. I’m not angry with you, I promise. I just wish we were all more honest with each other.” 

The relief exuding from them was palpable. “Yeah, we’re sorry for that.” Seamus said. 

“Seamus’ dad can’t stand” - he glanced between them - “people like us. It’s different in the magical world, I know, but it’s still a big deal. We thought you guys would hate sharing a room with a couple for starters” - 

“As long as you don’t start shagging when the lights go off.” Harry joked. 

Seamus went crimson. Dean gave a nervous laugh, “We - we wouldn’t.” 

Bloody hell. 

“But on top of that, it would have been too hard to explain. You’re all straight and we felt…”

“Cut off.” Seamus provided. 

Turmoil tugged in Harry’s chest at Dean’s statement. _ ‘You’re all straight’? _How could he possibly tell? 

The offence must have shown on his face. 

“Harry?” Seamus prompted, “You hear what we’re saying, right?” 

Oh, he’d heard them all right. 

“Yeah.” He exhaled, deciding to let it go. “I hear you. And I won’t tell anyone. I meant that. But maybe try being honest with Ginny. I’m sure she’d be a lot more understanding than you might think.” 

It had been a long day.

* * *

“Hermione,” Harry began quietly the next day at breakfast, “do you think that, um, I seem straight?”

Hermione lowered _ The Quibbler _she’d been reading, “Excuse me, Harry? You want to know if I think you... seem straight?” 

Ron spat his pumpkin juice back into his cup. 

“Never mind.” Harry said quickly, because Malfoy was passing their table. No one would have suspected the pair were tangled in an elaborate secret, not even from the momentary glance they shared as he passed. Malfoy’s expression was neutral, and Harry only recognized the flare in his silver-grey eyes from when he’d seen it in theDragon’s too. No one else noticed. 

No one except Ron and Hermione, of course.

“Talk about timing,” Ron muttered. 

Harry picked at his food, mulling over his approach for tonight’s looming session with Malfoy. How should he play it? Indifferent and haughty? Friendly and forgiving? Firey and forceful? There was no answer. He felt that whatever happened, they’d end up fighting and spitting insults at each other. Something about Malfoy’s sharp tongue and snide smirks made Harry feel like he needed to prove himself, and right when he was ready to be diplomatic Malfoy would make a remark to put him on edge. 

There were no winners or losers. 

Well, Harry felt like a bit of a loser. _ Accio-_ing the chair hadn’t been his proudest moment, but he’d been nervous. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t sure what had made him head for the Room of Requirement after their appointment with Dumbledore instead of waiting until eight o’clock, and he’d felt like a right fool walking in on Malfoy like that - especially when the other boy reacted as if he’d just stuck him with a hot poker. It was obvious he wanted to avoid Harry as much as possible, perhaps even more than Harry wanted to avoid him. 

But, as Dumbledore had made clear, avoiding him wasn’t an option. So after dinner was over, Harry said a dour goodbye to Ron and Hermione and made for the Room of Requirement. 

And he would have made it in time had it not been for Blaise Zabini. 

*

Trying to untangle his own magical core from the confused core of his Curse was like meditating. Except instead of calm and composed, _ this _ version of meditating was like Draco was dunking his whole body in a vat of Firewhiskey and absorbing it through every pore, setting his whole nervous system alight and scrambling his thoughts into a burning pool of incomprehensible sludge. He snapped open his eyes, only to be met with the grim sight of the Vanishing Cabinet. Potter was right. It was ugly as fuck. But he’d die before admitting it. He wanted nothing more than to smash it to pieces, core and all. But doing so would ruin the plan and put _ everyone _in danger… especially his mother. 

He gave an aching groan, stretching out his back before getting unsteadily to his feet. The book before him had become just as loathsome as the Cabinet itself, its repeating words floating around Draco’s mind with about as much use as a dead flobberworm. He meandered around the Cabinet, trying to view it from different angles. He checked his watch. It was five minutes past eight. It was so like Potter to be late. Probably revenge for last night, even though he’d been the one to start their ridiculous argument. Had he started it? Draco couldn’t really remember. Either way, it was Potter’s fault. 

A sad, old, rusty gramophone balanced on one of the shorter piles of long-lost crap near Draco. He wandered over, fiddling with its turny knobs and twisty-things until the record on top started to spin. It wasn’t making any noise. Draco huffed, poking every one of its appendages until he managed to get the pin to stick in one of the grooves. The sultry, low tremor of a woman’s voice rang out, crackling through the dust on the record. 

_ “...Leave it alone, it’s all gone…. Leave it alone, it’s all gone…” _

Draco allowed himself a humourless breath of a laugh. How accurate, he thought. It _ would _be all gone if he didn’t fix this damn Cabinet. He left the record playing, the sounds of the piano and violin reverberating around the cavernous space, the woman’s voice a ghostly drift amongst the towers of lost things. 

_ “Don’t stay to see me, turn from your arms, leave it alone, it’s all gone.” _

Draco sat in front of the Cabinet once more, crossing his legs and taking three deep breaths before closing his eyes.

_ “Give me my death... Close my mouth... Give me my breath... Close my mouth…” _

Draco would take death if he was the only one who would get it, but giving in now would be death sentence for his family too. There _ had _to be a way to get this fucker to work. His Curse writhed, snake-like and heated in his chest. It would be time to transform soon. If he waited for more than a few days, it would get too distracting. 

_ “Now while I love you, can’t love without you… Must love without you, alone.” _

Alone… 

He was never alone. Not for as long as the Curse lived and breathed inside of him. 

_ “How can I bear the ghost of you here?... Can’t love without you… Must love without you…” _

Alone. 

He was never alone.

So why did he feel so lonely? 

“Malfoy?” 

Draco opened his eyes. The record was still playing, the singer’s melancholic lyrics circulating around the room with the same mewling tone as before, but now they weren’t alone. 

Potter had already made it into the room, and he was standing two feet away from Draco. How had he not heard him? The music wasn’t that loud. 

“You’re here.” He stated, brushing dust off his knees as he stood, still in a daze. His limbs were as heavy as if he’d been sat there for an age, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute. 

“What is this?” Potter asked. 

“Music.” Draco replied seriously. 

Surprisingly, Potter smiled. It was brief but it was definitely there, and it caught Draco off guard. 

“Okay, Malfoy.” He snickered, placing his books on the upturned sofa as always. Draco deliberated stopping the record before Potter said:

“It’s… nice. A bit sad, but nice” 

Draco wasn’t sure where to put his hands. He folded his arms across his chest.

“Is it?” 

Potter raised a brow. “You put it on so I’m assuming you like it.” 

Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I found it. It’s just a song.” Abandoning the plan to turn the record off, he committed to striding purposefully toward the sofa and sitting on his designated stool. He determinedly avoided Potter’s eyes as he plucked a notebook from the pile and began scanning the pages. He couldn’t say _ where _his mind had gone to while he’d been sat in front of that Cabinet, but he still wasn’t rid of the odd feeling. It unnerved him. He hadn’t been forced to consider his circumstantial loneliness for a long time. He’d thought he hadn’t cared, but the sinking feeling at his core told him otherwise. 

What a nuisance. 

_ “Now while I love you… Can’t love without you… Must love without you, aloooone…” _

The last of the singer’s doleful tones ended and the record stopped. Its accompanying hiss added to the sense of detachment this room brought with it as a consequence of its purpose. 

Potter was watching him. His green-eyed stare was like a laser, and it was impossible to avoid. 

“What?” Draco asked as Potter sat opposite him. 

“Were you sleeping?” 

Draco sighed. “No. And how long were you stood there?” 

Potter’s cheeks stained scarlet. Subtle. “Long enough to think you’d dozed off.” He replied defensively. He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want to wake you up if you were. But then you were so still. It was creepy. I thought something might be wrong.” 

He started flicking through his textbook absently, frowning very hard at the pages but clearly not reading them. Draco was at a loss. 

“Right.” He said slowly, “Well, I wasn’t sleeping. I was concentrating.”

Potter licked his lips as he considered what Draco had said. Did he _ have _to do that? The nail-biting was almost preferable. 

“On what?” Potter’s book was upside down. Unable to resist, Draco reached over and turned the book the right way up before placing it back in Potter’s hands. The Gryffindor’s eyes went wide and his complexion deepened until it resembled a tomato. Draco choked on a laugh. 

“You sure you weren’t supposed to be in Hufflepuff?” 

Potter glared at him. “No, actually. I was supposed to be in Slytherin.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Potter smirked. “Wanna bet?” 

Draco felt his jaw drop. “You’re serious.” He barked an incredulous laugh. _ “You? _ In _ Slytherin_? Merlin have mercy, what a fine old fuck up that would have been.” 

Potter’s features remained distant and smug. Draco wanted to wipe it right off his face. 

“There are more than a few things you don’t know about me, Malfoy.”

“Come off it,” Draco scoffed, inexplicably elated by the news Potter had nearly been put in Slytherin. “There isn’t a single witch or wizard in the world who doesn’t know every detail of your soppy little life. You’re a walking talking cliché, Potter, and that’s exactly why you were sorted into Gryffindor.” 

He expected an amusing outburst or the slam of a fist or an over-zealous rant on the bravery of his house of tom-foolery. But instead, Potter continued to slowly shake his head, still plastering on that same shit-eating grin. 

“Wrong again, Malfoy.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. This was becoming a challenge. 

“How so? Every time I want to think you’re something different, you act in a way that proves I was right all along. Just like your friends. You’re all cut from the same cloth.” 

Potter’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. 

“And which cloth would that be?” He was keeping his voice surprisingly level for someone so prone to exploding at the slightest provocation. 

“Oh, you know.” Draco leant back with a yawn, “The self-sacrificing, bravado-obsessed, arrogance-disguised-as-valour type of cloth.” 

Potter clicked his tongue. Draco waited for the explosion. 

“And what about the cloth you and _ your _friends are cut from, Malfoy?” 

Draco nearly corrected him on the term ‘friends,’ but instead he regarded his long-term nemesis from across the chasm of the upside down sofa.

“Go on?” 

Potter took a deep breath. “The self-preserving-at-any-cost, greedy, conceited cowards type of cloth.” 

Draco forced himself to be still. “Careful, Potter. Swallow any more Thesauruses and you’ll turn into Granger.” 

He could feel his own blood simmering. There was practically steam radiating off Potter. Between the pair of them, they could heat a cauldron, and in their stubbornness to remain on higher-ground, neither one of them expelled it. This had become a competition, and neither were very good at losing. 

Draco was particularly stung by the ‘coward’ comment. It was his most-despised word in the English language, and to hear it directed his way yet again had struck a nerve. But it was only Potter. _It was only Potter. _Such consolidation would have worked a couple of months ago. Now, after everything… Draco desperately wanted to hex him for it. His fingers twitched toward his wand. Potter caught sight of the movement.

“Something to say?” 

Draco stretched out his legs in front of him. 

“Not on your life, Potter.” 

They contemplated one another. Draco didn’t want to be the first to break eye contact and neither did Potter. Thankfully, the game was stopped for them by the record skipping of its own accord and the song starting all over again, causing them to startle as the woman’s voice drifted over.

_ “Now while I love you, alone…” _

“Fuck,” Potter exhaled, red-faced and laughing. “I thought there was someone here.”

Draco’s heart was hammering too, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the gramophone or the staring contest. He sat up straight, pushing back the hair that had fallen into his eyes. 

“Why were you so late, Potter?” 

“It was only ten minutes.” He argued. 

Draco raised a brow and waited. 

“Actually, it was Zabini’s fault.” Potter grumbled. 

It was just surprise after surprise tonight, wasn’t it? Draco blinked. 

“Blaise?” 

Potter’s accusing eyes found his again. “Yes. He wanted to know where I was going." 

“Did you tell him?” Draco’s breaths were coming in fast. If Potter had slipped up -

“Of course not!” He exclaimed, “I’m not stupid.”

“Whatever you say. But why? What did he want?” 

“You tell me. You’re on their side.” He countered hotly. 

Draco lowered his voice. “We both know that’s not true anymore.” 

Potter snapped his mouth closed, seemingly undergoing some sort of meaningful inner conflict.

Draco decided to solve it for him. "Just trust that I’m not on theirs, or we wouldn’t be here.” 

“Then whose _ are _you on, Malfoy?” 

Draco ground his teeth. “No one’s. Alright? Isn’t that good enough?” 

“No!” Potter argued, “It isn’t good enough!”

Draco threw his hands up in frustration. “Why the fuck not? I’m not an evil overlord, Potter, and nor am I working for one. In anyone else’s books _ that _would be enough!” 

The pause that followed was only interrupted by the song.

_ “Give me my death... Close my mouth... Give me my breath... Close my mouth…” _

“You want to know why?” Potter began quietly, his eyes doing that terrible thing again, making Draco’s insides curl in on themselves with shame and dread, “Because you’re dangerous, Malfoy. Only a few of us know what you are, but everyone saw what you did to the Quidditch Pitch”-

“I didn’t mean to!” Draco contended. 

“Then that’s even worse! It would be so easy for you to - to _ kill_. I have to know you’re on our side before I can trust you not to hurt someone… whether by accident or not.” 

Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Hopelessness throbbed inside him with every beat of his frantic heart. Here sat in front of him the one person who’d kept him sane throughout his days in isolation, and here he was telling him he was dangerous. A killer. He was nothing more than a weapon in Potter’s eyes. 

And it was exactly what he’d been afraid of all along.

“Then I suppose you can never trust me.” 

_ “How can I bear the ghost of you here?... Can’t love without you… Must love without you… Alone.” _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A/N: The song mentioned is called "All Gone" by Cleo Laine and it was used as part of the soundtrack to the 1961 film, The Servant. I highly, highly recommend this film. It's bizarre and it's gay as hell - for the time, it was a really brave film and anyone who ships drarry will love it, I'm sure. There's a very similar dynamic there. James Fox's character is blond and posh, too, and he dishes out some Draco vibes so what's not to love?


	9. Ruin

Draco’s mouth was filled with ash. He couldn’t see for the grit in his eyes and the ground beneath him crackled and smoked as the final flames died. He spluttered and rubbed his face, opening his eyes to the charred, grey landscape before him. 

Hogwarts was gone. In its place, stone crumbled to dust and the wind scattered the rest to the mountains. The smoke began to clear and as Draco staggered to his feet, he saw a single figure standing in the middle of the debris, green eyes ablaze with anguish. 

“What have you done?” Potter’s cry echoed in the ruins. “You’ve killed everyone.” 

“No…” Draco lamented, “I… I couldn’t have… this wasn’t me…” 

As he spoke, Potter himself began to disappear, his skin flecking away piece by piece until he was nothing but a pile of ashes amongst the rest. 

_ “Yeeeeeees, Draco…” _

He heard her before he experienced the sensation of her wrapping her great body around his waist and rooting him to the spot. He struggled, but he was stuck. 

_ “Thissss… iss exactly what I wanted for you…” _ Nagini hissed in his ear. _ “Join usssss….” _

Draco fought her, but she became tighter and tighter, constricting him until his Curse propelled through his veins to protect him. To transform him. 

Draco could hear his own cries.

They woke him up. 

He sat up in bed, panting as reality dawned, slowly and surely. 

He was in his bed. In his dorm. Hogwarts was still here, still standing, and everyone was alive. 

He gulped, his mouth dry. 

“Draco.” A whisper startled him, and he spun in his sheets (which had tangled tightly around his waist during his thrashing… not a sentient snake after all) to be met with the face of his roommate. 

It was Gregory Goyle. 

“S-sorry.” Draco stammered, still not with it. He wiped his forearm across the sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

Gregory was sitting up on his own bed, fully clothed, his wand withdrawn and pointing at Draco.

“What are you doing?” Draco muttered, already thinking of a dozen spells to defend himself with. His own wand was on his bedside table, inches away… 

Gregory offered him a crooked, somewhat sympathetic smile. “Silencing charm.” He explained, “So none of the others would wake up. I’ve been doing it for the past few days, but this is the first time you’ve woken up.” 

Draco immediately felt a slow churn of humiliation. “Ah,” he exhaled, “right. Well, um… sorry for that.”

“S’alright. We all go through bad bouts, don’t we?” 

Draco stared at him. Back in the day, he’d never given Gregory much credit as magicians went. He hadn’t needed to. The boy had followed him around like a shadow. But these days he was more reserved. Draco had put it down to him losing even more braincells as a result of education-induced oversaturation, but he was beginning to realize that maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he’d initially thought him to be. 

Maybe he wasn’t actually stupid at all. Just… quiet. 

“You won’t tell anyone?” Draco implored. 

Gregory’s brow knitted together. “Of course not.” He answered, as if he was stumped by the very notion of what he was suggesting. Draco couldn’t tell whether it came from a place of blind loyalty or a genuine wish not to hurt him. Either way, a dredge of Draco’s guilt reserved itself for Gregory. 

“Thank you.” Draco replied. “Do you…?” He shouldn’t ask. But he wanted to. “Do you get nightmares as well?” 

Gregory shook his head. “Nah.” He reached into his bedside draw. The vials clinked together as he pulled them free. “I’ve got these.” 

Draco raised a brow. “Dreamless sleep? Don’t tell me... you’re addicted?” 

Gregory shrugged. “It helps.” 

“It won’t if you can’t stop.” 

His roommate frowned. “But if I stop, I’ll…” He trailed off. 

“End up like me.” Draco finished, curling a fist into his hair, which was damp with clammy sweat. “Yeah. Fair.” 

There was no way to tell what time it was beneath the lake, but the weather-sphere by Blaise’s bed was a dim, gloomy blue. It was already early morning. 

“Have you been awake all night?” Asked Draco. 

Gregory nodded. “It’s a side effect after continuous use.” He flicked one of the vials, making it _ ting. _ “Can’t sleep at all eventually. But s’alright. I’ll be back to it again tomorrow.” 

This was the first proper conversation Draco had had with any of his roommates/ex-friends in a while. He wasn’t sure if ‘nice’ was the right word for it, but it was a welcome change from the depressing silence. He realized with horror that the skin on his legs had risen into scales during his disturbing dream, but thankfully the sheets covered them. He closed his eyes, pushing the Curse back down with all his might. He’d have to transform again soon... 

“The others are scared of you.” 

Draco flicked his eyes open, fixing them on Gregory. He waited for an elaboration, but none came. 

“Why?” Draco prompted. 

“They know.” Gregory told him at length, and for a horrible moment Draco thought he was referring to the Curse, until the other boy’s gaze landed on his forearm. The dark mark stood out, stark and clear on his pale skin, the snake slinking about its eternal skull prison with ferocious grace. 

Draco forced himself not to hide it. Appearances were everything. 

“It’s like… you’re watching us.” Said Gregory. “That’s what Theo said.” 

Draco had to laugh. “He thinks I’m keeping tabs on you all? I hate to disappoint but the Dark Lord doesn’t care about what goes on in here. He only cares about taking down Dumbledore.” 

“And that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Gregory leaned forward, his expression probing. 

_ Shit_. He’d said too much. “You give me too much merit, Gregory. Anyway, I’d avoid asking such questions if I were you.” 

“Dad tells me everything.” 

“He could get in trouble for that.” Draco hurried to correct himself at the look on Gregory’s face, “But he won’t. I won’t say anything.” 

He visibly relaxed. “Okay. Thanks.” 

This is what their lives had become - worrying that any one of them could sell out the other’s family through spying on one another. A hierarchy of Death Eaters spawned at the hands of their parents dwelled in this very room, and they all thought Draco belonged at the top. They couldn’t have been more wrong. 

*

A pattern was emerging. 

Harry would enter the room of requirement to find Malfoy sat cross-legged, eyes-shut, in front of the Vanishing Cabinet listening to his strange song. It was a vintage record, the old label so faded he couldn’t discern the name of the tune or the singer, but it had become a definitive part of their routine. The night usually began with promise: they’d exchange some light banter and sit down to work, usually with some sort of goal in mind, and usually they managed to get through Transfiguration and Potions without insulting each other to the point of actual offence. It was when they got to Defence Against the Dark Arts that things would take a nasty turn. So far, after six long nights, Harry had the following topics of conversation blacklisted: Muggles, Muggleborns, Death Eaters, the war, the Cabinet, Malfoy’s Dragon-ness, Dumbledore and Quidditch. Which left them with virtually nothing. 

As much as Harry used to enjoy antagonizing Malfoy, it was becoming startlingly apparent just how inflammatory these subjects were - particularly when it came to Muggles. Harry was just waiting for him to say _ mudblood _ so he could hex him, but he hadn’t yet. It struck Harry as odd that Malfoy hadn’t yet used the word to start a fight, and he tried to consider the reasons why that could be. Ron suggested he fancied a muggleborn when they were at the Three Broomsticks on a Saturday afternoon. Harry nearly spat out his Butterbeer. It was hard to imagine Malfoy fancying _ anyone_. There’d been rumours of him and Parkinson becoming an item in fourth year but Harry hadn’t seen the pair so much as hold hands, and everyone knew the Greengrass family was after a marriage between him and Astoria. Harry tried to imagine what he would be like in love, but it was next to impossible. As he got older, Malfoy seemed increasingly untouchable. Harry’s memory unhelpfully flashed to them hiding under the cloak, a laugh on Malfoy’s pale lips as he crouched over Harry, torso exposed, and Harry had felt himself turn red. _ No_. He hadn’t liked where his mind had gone, so he buried his face in his drink and hoped no one had noticed.

It was with this unnerving thought in mind that Harry entered the Room of Requirement the next day. As usual, Malfoy was sat cross-legged in front of the Cabinet, eyes shut and brow furrowed ever so slightly. It was in these moments that Harry allowed himself to openly watch him. He’d learnt over the week that it wasn’t serenity on Malfoy’s features, but deep, frustrated concentration. He wondered what he was concentrating _ on _, exactly, but knew better than to ask again. The last time had earned him a sour-faced git for the rest of the night. 

_ “Give me my death... Close my mouth... Give me my breath... Close my mouth…” _

The woman’s ever-present melancholic singing coaxed Malfoy into the present, and his eyes snapped open. He huffed as he stood up, the dark circles under his eyes noticeably darker than they had been yesterday. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asked without meaning to. 

Malfoy regarded him reproachfully. “Yes. I’m fine, Potter.” 

That meant_ no_.

Malfoy cleared his throat, brushing off his knees. 

“I forgot to tell you.” He said icily, not looking Harry in the eye, “There was no need for you to come today.” 

Harry frowned, old suspicions for Malfoy flaring. “Why not?” 

Malfoy still didn’t glance up at him. He stared at the floor. 

“It’s been two weeks.” 

“And?” 

Malfoy’s fists tightened at his sides. “And? Don’t you remember what part of the deal was?” 

Harry cast his mind back in a panic, very reluctant to incur the wrath of Malfoy for a countless time this week. _ Reports, fixing the cabinet, working… transforming_. Fuck. He _ had _forgotten. 

“Ah.” He exhaled, “Yeah. It’s been two weeks.” 

Malfoy looked like he was about to explode as he stood there, wound up and almost twitching with the effort to restrain himself. From doing _ what_, Harry could only imagine. 

“Where are you going to go?” Harry asked, knowing he could and _ would _just check the map as soon as he left. 

“Where I always go.” Malfoy replied quickly. “As long as there are no Weasley’s sniffing around this time…” 

Harry wondered about that. He hadn’t seen Charlie or any of his team since Malfoy’s first transformation. 

“I’m sure he won’t be. You gave him a scare last time.” 

Malfoy raised a brow. “Potter, of _ course _he won’t be. Dumbledore Obliviated him and the rest at the first chance he got.” 

Harry felt himself go cold. “What do you mean? H-he wouldn’t do that.” Even as the words slipped from his mouth, he realized Malfoy had just made an excellent point. And Malfoy _ knew _he knew it. 

“One of Hogwarts’ most suspect students can turn himself into a Dragon and you don’t think one of them would have blabbed?” His expression turned cruel, “If Weasley hadn’t grassed on me then certainly one of the others would. Obliviation is standard Ministry practice, Potter, even on our own kind. _ Especially _on our own kind. It certainly isn’t beyond your precious Dumbledore, especially to protect such a juicy secret. He’ll want to keep this one all to himself, won’t he?” 

Harry felt sick. “It isn’t like that. How can you be so selfish? If you’re right then he only did it to protect you.” 

Malfoy laughed. “You’re so deluded, it’s pathetic. Just pathetic, Potter.” 

With that, Malfoy breezed past him and slammed out of the Room of Requirement, leaving the record playing. 

Harry’s breathing came quick and shallow. He desperately wanted Malfoy to be wrong. He couldn’t stand not knowing. He raced to Gryffindor tower, finding Hermione and Ginny sat in front of the fire, talking through Ginny’s OWL revision. 

“Harry?” Hermione was surprised to see him, “Aren’t you supposed to be”- She gave a quick sideways glance at Ginny and coughed. “At the um. Library?” 

Harry shook his head. “Need to talk to you.” 

*

The Curse was ready, but Draco wasn’t. Every time he shut his eyes he saw heaped ashes before him, the wind scattering them to dust and Potter’s accusing green eyes amongst it all. 

_ “You’ve killed everyone.” _

The forest was cold and empty. As February bled into March, the beginnings of spring didn’t so much as touch its perpetual winter. Fog clustered around his knees like a blanket of frost and so far he’d only managed to discard his shirt. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been stood here. His conviction had abandoned him, and all he could think of was ruin. 

Maybe… maybe he wasn’t ready yet. It had only been two weeks. Tonight wasn’t the night. He turned to leave. And stopped. He wasn’t alone. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, his eyes not accusing like they were in Draco’s dreams of late, but hesitant. “I had to come.” 

Draco couldn’t speak. He was really _ here._ How?

Potter took a step closer, and Draco could see him clearer through the fog now. He was nervous. He was biting his nails again and swinging on the balls of his feet. So obviously like him that it hurt. 

“How did you find me?” Draco found his voice. Heat pulsated in his chest. Didn’t Potter realize how dangerous it was to be around him right now? Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe Draco shouldn’t have cared either. But he did. And he didn’t want Potter seeing him like this. 

The boy in question hesitated, his hand folding into his front pocket. Draco heard the rustle of parchment. 

“You have something, don’t you?” He prompted, “A way to find me. T-to _ track _me.” 

How had he not realized it before? Potter had a bad habit of turning up at conveniently unexpected moments, especially when Draco didn’t want to be found. That wasn’t just ‘Chosen One’ luck. There was more to it. 

Potter lowered his head. “Yes. But it doesn’t matter. You seem… something wasn’t right. I could tell. You weren’t moving.” 

“It does matter! You shouldn’t be here!” 

Potter stepped closer. “Maybe not, but if I can help”-

“Help?” Draco repeated, incredulous. “How the fuck can you - _ what are you staring at? _”

At first Draco thought his expression had become one of horror because he’d spotted the Dark Mark on his exposed arm again, but after following Potter’s wide, pin-point gaze, he realized he was staring at his chest. More specifically, the fresh map of scars that decorated him. 

Draco turned his back to Potter, heat flooding him. He couldn’t discern it from rage or humiliation, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to scream and hide all at once. 

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” He said thickly, breathing deeply in a futile attempt to calm his Curse. A shiver of scales swept up his arms before fading into skin again.

“I did that.” Said Potter, his voice low. 

Draco couldn’t bear to look at him, couldn’t stand to see the inevitable expression of guilt on his face. He didn’t want Potter’s guilt _ or _his pity. He wanted him to fuck off and pretend it hadn’t happened. 

“No use crying over spilt milk.” Draco scoffed, squeezing his eyes shut against the pins and needles sensation bubbling under his flesh. “I’ve…” He gulped as his voice threatened to leave him, his throat trying to lengthen and transform against his will. “I’ve done much worse.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” He heard Potter say quietly, and that was all Draco could take. 

He spun around, dreading to imagine how he looked right now, so close to the edge. 

“But it does!” He fired back, “You said it yourself. I’m dangerous! I can’t be trusted, can I? Because I could blow up the whole fucking school if I wanted to! I could reduce this forest to fucking cinders, and who would stop me?” 

“I would!” Potter choked, and Draco almost recoiled. Because there were tears - _ actual tears _\- in his eyes. No fire or hatred, just… pain. “I would stop you… somehow. But it doesn’t matter because you wouldn’t do it.” 

“How do you know, Potter?” Draco growled, inching forward. They were too close. It wasn’t safe. He was moments away from transforming. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. You know fuck all about me.”

Potter shook his head. “You’re wrong. I thought I did, and I didn’t but… I do now.”

“So, tell me.” 

Draco was close enough to hear Potter’s breaths. To see the puffs of it swirling into mist that caught itself in Draco’s hair. To feel the heat of his skin and the full penetrative force of his gaze. 

Potter must have seen it in him microseconds before it happened, because the next thing he knew his freezing hands were pressed against Draco’s searing chest, and he pushed him away from him at full force. 

Draco didn’t even make it to the ground. 

*

His wings sprung from his back before anything else. Scales unfurled, row by row, fanning out into radial pinions and bursting with silver light. His legs, claws and neck followed next, uncurling and stretching and forming like the Dragon was waking from a long slumber, the sound of his bones and tendons fusing cracking like gunshots through the Forest. In his haste to get away, Harry had fallen onto his back, and he watched the transformation from the ground, unable to look away. Because… it was beautiful. 

The Dragon threw back his head and gazed at the stars above them, the March skies illuminating shafts of moonlight through thin slips in the canopy. 

Harry scrambled to his feet, taking in the full extent of the Dragon before him. His tail was healed, and it curved in a long S, shaped around his torso, the last part of his body to unfurl from the scales. 

“Wow.” Harry whispered, backing into a tree. 

The Dragon - _ Malfoy - _bent his head to peer down at him with cool, grey eyes. 

Harry gulped. 

“Good job I moved out of the way, isn’t it?” He laughed flatly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“You’re… exactly the same.” He realized it as he said it. “You’re the same as last time.” 

The Dragon did not move, and Harry could picture Malfoy saying something obtuse and quippy like “_well spotted, Potter.” _

Harry’s breaths came shallow in his throat. The thrill of the Dragon before him again was all at once a relief and a disappointment. A relief, because he was _ with his Dragon again - _ a disappointment because the Dragon truly did hate him. Because he was his school rival. He was a Malfoy. _ Draco _Malfoy. And that would never change, however much Harry wished it. 

He was overcome by resentment. Not even towards Malfoy, but towards himself for rejecting his friendship in first year. Harry would be the first person to volunteer Malfoy as an absolute twat - he always had been - but he regretted the way he’d handled their rivalry. Because if he’d known… _ if only he’d known! _

If only he’d known that Malfoy was a Dragon. Maybe this would have been easier. 

“You were right,” He told the Dragon at last. He’d expected Malfoy to fly away or simply ignore him, but he stood bathed in the refractive glare of the moonlight off his iridescent scales just looking at Harry. 

Malfoy inclined his great head. Like a puppy. 

“You were right about Dumbledore,” Harry elaborated, “At least… Hermione reckons so. I told her about our argument.” 

It was amazing how much easier it was to tell Malfoy all of this when he couldn’t talk back. 

“I haven’t said anything to Ron,” Harry began pacing around the circumference of the tree, “I reckon he wouldn’t like it if he knew his brother had been Obliterated for your sake.” 

Malfoy let out a puff of air that Harry could only interpret as a scoff. 

“And before you say anything, this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven for being an arse. We _ have _to work together, and you’re making it fucking difficult.” 

Malfoy yawned. 

“Right. Point taken.” Said Harry, sitting on the ground. 

The Dragon mirrored him, sliding back onto his hind legs and resting his large head on his overgrown talons. 

Harry stared at them. “Does it hurt? To transform?” 

Malfoy eyed him shrewdly, pausing before shaking his head. 

Harry searched for a resemblance of Malfoy (aside from his eyes, which were precisely identical to his human form) in the Dragon in an attempt to justify why he hadn’t guessed it was him months ago. His scales were not the same shade as his hair, but they had an austere glow, one that Harry could easily classify as Malfoy-ish. The expression, too, was distinctly _ him_. The haughty raise of his hairless, scaly brow and bored scowl; no one - man or creature - could be more like Draco Malfoy if they tried. 

Harry realized he’d been staring too long when Malfoy frowned at him, baring the slightest snarl. 

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, picking at twigs on the ground, “it’s just weird. You were just a Dragon to me for ages, and just Malfoy for even longer and now I know you’re both the same thing… I don’t know. I’m adjusting.” 

The Dragon rolled his eyes again. Draco… ‘Draco’ meant ‘Dragon’, didn’t it? This made Harry smirk. 

“You were named appropriately at least.” Malfoy gave a rumbling, threatening growl and now that Harry could picture him snapping at him in his head, it didn’t come across as dangerous at all. He was all bark and no bite. 

“What?” He laughed, “It’s true! Don’t blame me, blame your parents.” 

The Dragon snuffled, evading Harry’s gaze and resting his head back on his feet. He was pouting. 

They sat like this for some time, and all the while Harry contemplated leaving. But the Dragon wasn’t urging him to. Malfoy was, at the very least, tolerating him. The silence hadn’t become awkward yet. It was… nice. 

“Are you, um, feeling a bit better now?” 

_ Now _it was awkward.

The Dragon’s eyes slowly slid to land on Harry, filled to the brim with abhorrence. 

“I… didn’t mean to say it like that.” Said Harry, experiencing a sudden burst of heat from the neck upwards. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to speak to you like you’re five. That was stupid. I just… didn’t know what to say.” 

Harry’s fear of being roasted alive was quashed when he realized the shaking in the Dragon’s shoulders and wings wasn’t from Malfoy gearing up to incinerate him, but from laughter. Malfoy couldn’t smile in this form, but Harry could picture it. 

He sighed. “Yeah. I know. Stupid me, classic Harry and all that. But I dare you to try and have a one-sided conversation like this. It isn’t easy, trust me. It’s alright for you. You don’t have to say anything. You just get to be all epic and scary and… Dragon-y. I’m just me.” 

The Dragon regarded him.

“Don’t give me any of that Chosen One crap.” Harry could read him seamlessly. “It’s a pile of bollocks.” 

Malfoy scoffed again. But it sounded like it was in agreement this time. 

“I mean, it’s _ true_.” Harry defended, “But it’s still a pile of bollocks. I don’t want it, if that’s what you think.

Malfoy gave an eye-roll as if to say _ “yes, I know, Potter” _and Harry found himself feeling sorry for him; restricted only to eye-rolls and scoffs and head-inclines. 

“How long have you got to…” he gestured wildly with his hands, “stay like this?” 

Malfoy blinked twice.

“I-is that like, two minutes? Two hours?” 

Malfoy turned away from Harry and stood, stretching out his long neck and spine so his scales shimmered in perfect formation as he passed under the light of the moon. Harry was spellbound by every movement. And it was then he understood Malfoy was offering him a ride on his back. 

*

Draco hadn’t felt this satiated in a while. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact he was no longer carrying the world’s most dangerous secret on his shoulders all alone anymore. Perhaps it was to do with the fact he’d had Harry Potter, the Chosen One and his mortal enemy, riding on his back last night until they’d both landed, laughing and thrilled onto the forest floor. Of course, Potter wouldn’t have been able to recognize that Draco was laughing - but all the same, he had been. And it was so perplexingly strange that Draco was having a lot of trouble concentrating in the library this afternoon. He had a free period so he’d taken the liberty of spending it here rather than alone and brooding at the Cabinet to no avail. It was about time he caught up on some work, anyway. 

Fat lot of good it was doing. 

He couldn’t get Potter’s red-faced messy-headed infectious laughter out of his head, and his Curse purred all the more for it. So much so that he was caught unawares as someone emerged from a shelf beside his desk to lean against it, her skirt hitched up to her thigh, long meticulous braids brushing the base of her spine. 

He didn’t bother to lay down his pen.

“Astoria.” He acknowledged, without actually glancing up to acknowledge her. 

“You’ve been ignoring me since term started. What the fuck is up with you?” She launched straight in, not even bothering to lower her voice. 

“Pince will have your guts for garters if you don’t keep it down.” 

“Pince could lick a toad’s arse and then spit in my face for all I care. She doesn't scare me.” Said Astoria in an airy, light tone that clashed jarringly wish her words. She had a foul-mouth for someone so well-spoken otherwise. Not that Draco could criticize her for it. He was just as bad. Only… not so openly. 

He sighed, “What do you want?” 

Astoria tossed her many braids over one shoulder, giving special attention to a long silver one she’d had woven in. It must have been a recent addition. Draco didn’t remember it. 

“Your undying love, of course.” She cooed with about as much believability as a Garden Gnome attempting to recite the alphabet. 

“Cut the act, Astoria, no one is listening. Not even Pince. I cast a _ muffliato._” Said Draco, finally setting down his pen and looking up at her. “And stop waving your bloody hair in my face.”

She whipped her head backwards and forwards, splaying her braids like a curtain.

“It’s fun, though.” 

“It’s fucking annoying. Sit down properly.” 

“Nah.” She said, “What are you reading? Is that our Arithmancy notes?”

It was, but Draco shut the book and shoved it into his bag. 

“You could have asked me for help.” Astoria told him pointedly. Her almost-black eyes latched onto him like a vice. “We _ are _betrothed, after all.” 

Technically, she wasn’t wrong. 

“No, we aren’t.” Draco insisted. 

Astoria scowled and slid into the empty seat opposite him, folding her arms and resting her chin on her hands. She regarded him ruefully. 

“You haven’t spoken to me all year.” 

Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug, getting increasingly agitated. “And?” 

“And?” She echoed, raising a brow. “What, am I not good enough for you now?” 

Draco grit his teeth. “Stop teasing me. It’s in poor taste.” 

Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “Since when did our kind deal in anything _ but _poor taste, Draco?”

He shook his head, getting ready to leave. “I shan’t marry you, Astoria. Sorry to ruin your plans.” 

She pulled a face. “Oh, fuck off. You have to.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“If I can hack it, you can.”

Draco wanted to bash his head against a desk. If Potter was iron-willed, Astoria was titanium. She was prideful at best, ruthless at worst, and she was Draco’s oldest friend. Their families had been tied since birth. True, they hadn’t exactly been close since beginning school, but Draco had put it down to Astoria’s choice of company; Ravenclaws. They shared one class together and had remained fairly well connected for the last few years, but Draco had never awarded their relationship much credit. And this was exactly why. She was incessant. 

Her eyes turned to steel. “Draco, this is not a debate. We agreed _ years _ ago.”

“We were twelve.”

“The arrangement suits us. It’s perfect.” 

“What, pretending and lying through our teeth to our families while you go off and fuck other people? Can you imagine how my father would react?” Draco spat in a hushed whisper, despite the _ muffliato_. 

“And can you imagine how snout-face would react if she found out I was into fanny?” Snout-face was Astoria’s chosen nickname for her stepmother. Draco wasn’t even sure he knew her real name. Regina or Rhea or something. But her face did rather resemble that of a pig's. 

“_Snout-face _ has nothing on what my father would do to _ me_.” Draco countered. 

“Well, she hasn’t been to Azkaban yet I suppose so you’ve got one up on me there.” Astoria said cruelly. If nothing else, he admired her brutal honesty. 

“Astoria, I will not marry you.” He said firmly. 

She huffed, leaning back in her chair and kicking the table leg. “Spoilsport. You were all for it last year.” 

“Because last year…” He trailed off. What exactly had changed? The idea of a lacklustre marriage with his long-time lesbian playmate had never inspired much joy, but he’d been content with the idea neither one of them would be tied down to committ to one another - informally, at least. He’d be free to satisfy his baser needs with whomever he wished, and his darling perfect pureblood wife wouldn’t have a bad word to say about it because she’d have a mistress (or two) of her own. He’d never taken much time to work out the specifics of the _ who’ _ s or the _ where’s _ and _ how _'s but it had seemed… acceptable. At the time. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment the idea had gone from merely acceptable to utterly abhorrent. 

“Are you in lo-ove?” Astoria mocked in a sing-song voice.

“No.” Draco snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous. And why are you bringing all of this up now? You could have come to me at any point in the year, and…” It clicked. “You like someone. You’re panicking.” 

Astoria’s expression darkened.

Bingo. He smiled at his triumph. 

“You’re a loathsome arsehole, Draco, you know that don’t you?” 

“I know. I won’t bother to ask who but I will say, don’t bother pursuing it.” 

Astoria played with the silver braid in her hair. It was enchanted. Shining threads twisted in uniform formation, flowing down her hair like a waterfall. It was an unusual colour for her. She usually chose gold or another gaudy shade. 

“Why not?” She said sulkily, “I can fancy whoever I like.” 

“Yes, but if she’s straight you’ll get yourself hurt.” 

Astoria barked a laugh. “You’d know all about that.” Draco clenched his jaw and she grimaced. “Sorry. That was harsh. But I _ am _having a shit time of it.” 

Her overplayed _ feel-sorry-for-me-act _made it difficult for him to sympathize. 

“I’m sure you’ll get over it.” 

She stood, scooting the chair back with a harsh scrape. “And I’m sure one day you’ll find a way to wrench that stick out of your arse and replace it with something a little more… _ to your tastes_.” She smirked, but there was a lilt of sadness behind it. Nevertheless, she placed a finger beneath Draco’s chin, basking in the moment and blowing him a tiny kiss. “Can’t wait to plan our horrible hetero wedding. Ciao, baby.” 

He sighed, waiting for her footsteps to recede before going ahead and bashing his head against the desk. Astoria was a nightmare of a woman when it came to sussing him out. She was in leagues with Blaise for that trophy. But it had her name on it. Only just. Because she was the only one who knew Draco was gay.

  
  



	10. Obliviate

_ It was the end of his first term of their fourth year, just before the Christmas holidays, and Draco was banging his head against the wall. _

_ “Um… Draco?” _

_ He whipped around, startled. The shadows of the empty common room gloomed a severe green. He thought he was the only one left, until Astoria revealed herself from the hallway of the girl’s dormitory, pulling her overstuffed trunk behind her. _

_ “What are you doing here?” He snapped, trying to wipe the panic off his face. He didn’t do a very good job. She frowned at him, her short black hair a halo of gloriously untamed curls around her head. _

_ “You’re acting weird.” She told him, inching closer. “Why are you acting weird?” _

_ He shut his eyes and pulled in a shaky breath. “I’m not.” _

_ She offered him a sly grin. “C’mon, Ferret. Tell me what’s up.” _

_ “Don’t call me that!” _

_ She stifled her giggles. “Sorry. It _ was _ funny, though.” _

_ Draco couldn’t nor did he want to find the humour in Professor Moody’s ridiculous prank on him. The nickname was still stuck. It would stick for the rest of his life, no doubt. But that wasn’t what was bothering him. _

_ He fell down onto one of the leather sofas. “I… don’t want to go home.” He admitted. It was easier when it was just the two of them. He wouldn’t be able to say this with his other friends here. _

_ Astoria lightly perched next to him, tilting her head. “Why not?” She asked softly. _

_ Dread flared in his stomach. “It’s the Pater.” He said at length, “Well, you know him. You know how he likes to conduct his little tests.” _

_ Astoria’s nostrils flared visibly. He always thought it was amazing how viscerally her anger manifested itself. _

_ “He’s not… don’t tell me he’s still force-feeding you Veritaserum?” She sounded disgusted. _

_ Draco gave a semi-shrug. “He needs to know I’m doing everything right. Especially this year with the press around for the tournament and everything. But… but this time it’s” - he swallowed thickly. He couldn’t find his words. “I don’t want him to make me… tell.” _

_ Astoria peered into his pale face. “Tell him what?” _

_ Draco shook his head, horribly aware of the lump in his throat and the way his bottom lip started to quiver dangerously. _

_ “I-I’ve already thought of what I’ll say. All he wants is an heir. That’s it! I can still give him one, even if I am... I’m just afraid that as soon as he asks me, all my thoughts will come spilling out - everything I’ve been trying to hide, and I - I can’t bear to think of it. He’ll hate me. Mother won’t know what to do. I already disappoint him enough as it is and this will just… it’ll ruin everything.” _

_ Astoria was deadly quiet. Draco dug his palms into his eyes, wishing he could abolish every intrusive thought he’d had this term. When Astoria still hadn’t said anything, he made himself look up. _

_ “You - you know what I mean?” He began, fearful that she might suddenly tell. That she might suddenly hate him for it too. “Don’t you?” _

_ Her dark eyes were wide as she breathed, “Oh… well… yes. I'm not gonna lie, Draco. I sort of knew." _

_She smiled but all he could do was turn away as he exhaled another shaky breath. "Brilliant." He said bitterly, "Thanks." _

_"Sorry. That was a shit thing to say." She replied sheepishly. Draco agreed. It was a bit shit. And it didn't help him feel any better. "But... I do have an idea, actually. It might work.”_

_ He perked up. “You do?” _

_ And before he knew could stop her, she lunged forward and pressed her mouth hard against his. It took everything he had not to recoil as she parted her lips and let her tongue dart into his mouth, the weird slippery sensation of it turning Draco’s whole body numb with shock. _

_ She broke away and he coughed violently, hardly daring to swallow knowing her spit had mixed with his. _

_ “Astoria!” He spluttered, scandalised, “What the fuck?” _

_ She wiped the back of her mouth with her hand, grimacing. “See? Now you can think of that if he asks you. I’m sure you won’t forget it easily.” She laughed, “I know I won’t.” _

_ It took a second for it to dawn on him what she’d done, and when it did, he couldn’t prevent the laugh that followed. _

_ “I won’t pretend I enjoyed that, but you’re a genius.” He offered his oldest friend a tentative smile, “Thanks… I think.” _

_ “Just wait until our engagement. We’ll both be gagging for real then.” She stood up briskly, still smacking her lips together with an expression of mild distaste as she grabbed the handle of her trunk and wheeled it to the common room entrance. “Merry Christmas, Ferret!” _

_ “...Merry Christmas, Astoria.” _

Astoria really had saved Draco that day. His father had indeed asked him about “the pleasures he’d indulged in with women” during fourth year and the crush of Astoria’s mouth, her wet tongue sliding over his, had popped into his head instantly. He’d ended up describing the ‘kiss’ in excruciating detail under the influence of Veritaserum. His father had thought Draco was smiling over the memory of it, but he was smiling because he’d tricked him. He’d cheated the one method of interrogation Lucius believed to be uncheatable. Needless to say, it had been enough to sate his father’s curiosity and consequent worry for the possibility of an heir. There was the unfortunate side-effect, however, that it had firmly solidified the engagement he’d had planned for Draco and Astoria since birth. There was no backing out now. For either of them. 

Or so Draco had thought until he’d become a Death Eater, double-crossed his father, his fellow Death Eater pals _ and _the Dark Lord and started spending every night with his sworn enemy. It was funny how things had turned out, and the more he thought about it the more he realized he could never marry Astoria. Not if his father was brandishing a vat of Veritaserum in his face and threatening to force him to create an heir via magical invitro-fertilisation. 

It was quite freeing, how little Draco cared about such a silly thing now. Being a Dragon for so long had given him quite a new perspective on things. Flying free above the trees, drinking in the rays of the moonlight and swooping into every mountain crevice and valley he desired; it had made him to reevaluate the possibility of any such future where he’d be forced to pretend to be happily married to Astoria and (he physically shivered at the thought) have children with her. Draco doubted he’d ever have children at all. He doubted, even more so, that he’d ever be loved enough by anyone that he’d make it that far.

Not that it mattered. 

The war would probably finish him off anyway, if Potter’s incessant presence didn’t first. It was only a matter of time before one of them snapped. 

March was proving to be a slow month, as months went. Now that Draco was used to his situation and the fear of being immediately caught and punished by the Dark Lord had worn off somewhat, he was finding more and more that he didn’t so much hate Potter as he did resent him for his willful ignorance. 

Part of Draco had been convinced that Potter’s Dumbledore-worship had been just an act. But it wasn’t. It _ really _wasn’t. And that disturbed him more. 

After his bemused revelation that Dumbledore _ wasn’t _ in fact a saint who blessed all who saw him with rainbows and good-will, and had genuinely Obliviated Charlie Weasley and his team, Potter had become even more tight-lipped on the subject of the headmaster around Draco. More nights than not, Draco tried his luck, pushing Potter into near-shouting matches by throwing odd jabs and snide remarks about Dumbledore at him, but it was hard to get him to bite. He hadn’t gone so far as telling Potter about the interrogation yet. He wasn’t sure what was stopping him, only he knew he couldn’t bear the idea of Potter feeling _ sorry _for him. That was worse than the idea of him actually agreeing with him for once. 

The only nights which proved an exception to their endless bickering were the nights Draco transformed. 

He still had no idea how Potter was finding him. It was driving him a bit mad, actually, and he’d tried to search Potter’s bag on multiple occasions but to no avail. Whatever contraption or spell he was using to track Draco down, he kept it on his person. It was like an unspoken ritual now, that Potter would accompany him to his transformations in the forest. They’d flown up to the cave twice, and with the dawn of Spring, it became far more pleasant up there than it had been in the winter. 

This was when Potter was his most unguarded. And Draco couldn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy those moments when he would sit, towering above him, as he paced around the cave or forest floor talking idly about his friends and their small troubles and his own little tizzies. And Potter really _ could _get himself in a tizzy, Draco had noticed, even just by talking to himself, his hair getting more and more frazzled by the second, nails bitten down to nothing. It was amusing. And different. And Draco couldn’t talk back in his Dragon form. He could only listen. And that was oddly freeing too. 

*

“Why does Slughorn have to be a sadist? These tests are seriously pointless.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s a sadist, Potter, as much as he’s an opportunist.”

“Same thing.”

“It certainly is _ not_.” 

“For Godric’s sake, you know what I mean. Do you mind if I turn the song off? I can’t concentrate with this woman warbling in my ear.”

Malfoy stood up from where they were sat in their usual spot, the upside-down sofa littered with notes and scrawlings in their varied handwritings. He stretched and yawned as he did so, taking the time to throw off his robes and roll up his sleeves, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt like he was at home. Harry had found himself watching Malfoy do this many a time over the last couple of weeks, and he couldn’t explain _ why _exactly he enjoyed the moment his reluctant companion decided to take off the bulk of his uniform and opt for the more casual open-shirt look, but he’d come to realize that he did. Particularly when Malfoy inevitably reached up to absently touch the pendant at his throat. The process revealed an ease about him which Harry was steadily growing accustomed to. He preferred the rolled-up sleeves version of Malfoy to the uniformed closed-off version of him. It was like he was seeing a side of him no one else was allowed to. Like this area of the Room of Requirement was their little world for a few hours a night, and even the looming shadow of the Vanishing Cabinet couldn’t tarr it. 

No, they were quite capable of ruining it themselves as it turned out. 

Harry mused to himself, watching Malfoy’s retreating back as he went to switch off the record, wondering what would set them off tonight. One of them was bound to make a slip-up and infuriate the other into either a stony silence (usually Malfoy opted for the silence) or an adrenaline fuelled storm-out until they reunited the next night (Harry much preferred storming out than he did to sitting in cold, terse quiet, feeling Malfoy’s furious grey eyes bore into him like knives. He’d tried that a few times and it didn’t bode well for either of their tempers). 

He tried not to think about it. He was distracted seconds later by Malfoy carding his hands through his hair which was getting rather long now. He’d gone beyond tucking it behind his ears to having the ends almost scraping his shoulders. 

“Potter?”

Harry blinked, “What?” 

Malfoy flicked the pin off the spinning record and headed back, shaking his head at Harry with an easy smile. The kind of easy smile that reminded Harry of the night they’d hidden under the cloak together. The kind of easy smile that sent his insides squirming inexplicably. 

“_Honestly_, anyone would think you’d stuffed your ears with floo powder.” Malfoy snorted, “I said, what’s got you in for it with Slughorn at the moment? You were virtually licking his shoes clean last term.” 

“Um…” Harry shuffled his notes, chewing his lip. He hadn’t told Malfoy about his mission for Slughorn’s memory because he hadn’t needed to. There was also the fact that Malfoy had, up until recently, been working for Voldemort. “S’just hard work, is all.” He said weakly. 

Malfoy sat back across from him, his gaze inquisitive. “What happened to all that talent, Potter?” 

He was teasing him. Definitely. 

Harry laughed uneasily. “It left me, I suppose. I dunno.” _ I got rid of the book because it nearly killed you_, he didn’t say. 

The silence between them became awkward. 

“Right.” Malfoy said stiffly, moments later. “I see.” 

Nothing got past him, did it? He was a sharp sod. He averted his eyes from Harry and fixed his glare on his notes instead, the dislike coming off him like a cold breeze. So apparently _ this _was what was what had ruined their night this time. And it wasn’t like their usual disagreements. Malfoy had just clocked onto Harry’s bad lying, assumed the worst, no doubt, and now they were sat working in the exact kind of silence Harry hated. He silently fumed over his notes, barely aware of what he was writing. It wasn’t his fault. It was none of Malfoy’s business anyway. So why did he have to be such a prick about it? 

Harry was clutching his quill so hard it became brittle under his grip. 

He _ could _ tell him, he supposed. It wouldn’t do any harm, would it? Unless Malfoy was actually faking this whole ‘ally’ thing and he was still working for Voldemort after all. It wasn’t an impossibility. But somehow, Harry couldn’t believe the thought even as it occurred to him. But it was too late to say it _ now_. Malfoy was well into his brooding, hunched over his notes, lips so tightly pressed together Harry could barely see them. He was well and truly pissed off, and if he said anything now he would sound like an idiot.

“Slughorn doesn’t trust me anymore.”

Yep. He sounded like an idiot. He should have kept his mouth shut.

Malfoy stopped writing, slowly looking up at him. “What?” 

Harry scrambled, “Well, you were asking why I’m frustrated about Potions all the time now, and”-

“Yes I _ know _what I asked, Potter.” Malfoy sighed, the tightness in his features relaxing a notch, “Why doesn’t he trust you? You were his most prized possession.” 

Harry exhaled, “My own fault, really. There’s something I have to get from him. A memory. Dumbledore needs me to get it, and… I went about it the wrong way.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how I’ll get hold of it now. Dumbledore’s getting impatient with me.” 

Malfoy frowned. “Why can’t he get it himself?” 

“Slughorn doesn’t trust Dumbledore either.”

Malfoy broke into a grin, barking a laugh and throwing down his pen. 

“Merlin’s beard. What a colossal fuck up! Can’t say I blame old Sluggy, to be honest.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, alright. It is a bit of a fuck up. But there’s not really much I can do about it now.” 

“You could trick him. Force the memory out." Malfoy quirked a sly brow and Harry rolled his eyes. "What _ is _the memory, anyway?” 

Harry knew by all rights he should have been angry with Malfoy for acting like a twat, but he was more relieved they were talking normally again. And he didn’t get the feeling Malfoy was doing it to irk Harry anymore, it was just sort of… how he was. And it wasn’t _ that _awful. Not for the moment. 

He told Malfoy about Tom Riddle in the orphanage, and Slughorn’s tampered memory and how he’d made a mess of it all by trying to recreate his conversation with the teenage Voldemort all those years ago. 

Malfoy listened, wide-eyed and attentive, until Harry was done.

“Fuck.” He announced with a sigh.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t imagine the Dark Lord as a teenager…” 

“He was just as creepy.” Said Harry, “And do you have to call him that?”

Malfoy crossed his arms. “What? A teenager?” 

Harry felt his brow dimple. “No. The... _'Dark Lord'_... Only his followers call him that.”

Malfoy’s expression turned sour. “In case it escaped your notice, which it very well may have given your horrendous powers of observation, I _ was _a follower.” He rolled down his sleeves as he spoke, covering the mark. Harry couldn’t tell whether the action was done consciously or not. 

“I still would have been if you hadn’t…” 

“Don’t say ‘if I hadn’t betrayed you’” Harry began.

“I wasn’t going to.” Malfoy snapped, a thundercloud passing over their conversation once again. 

Harry leaned back in his spindly chair, a bitter taste in his mouth. “So, what? You’d rather go back?” 

“Obviously not you dimwit.” Malfoy spat. 

“But you don’t like being on _ our _side either.” 

“I don’t like any of this!” He shouted, standing with force and sending his stool onto its side. He swiped a hand across their make-shift desk, and the top layer of notes flew into the air, fluttering down onto the floor in the wake of his outburst. 

Harry watched him pace in a circle, fisting his hair, making huffing noises in the general direction of the Cabinet. Usually this would be the point where Harry made to leave - _ loudly _if possible - slamming the door on his way out. But he was compelled to stay because for once, somehow, he felt like this wasn’t about him. 

“No luck?” He ventured with a glance at the Cabinet. 

Malfoy rounded on him. “Piss off.” He seethed.

Harry could only sigh. He stood up, keeping a distance. 

“Why can’t you fix it?” He tried.

Malfoy gave a humourless laugh. “If I knew _ why _there wouldn’t be an issue!” 

“So, it’s impossible then?” 

“No, it’s not impossible, it’s just” - Malfoy marched over to the Cabinet and kicked it with a force that must have hurt - “_fucking difficult!” _

Harry resisted the urge to comment on his temper. It would get them nowhere and he didn’t particularly fancy being on the receiving end of it anymore than he already was. His energy seemingly spent for the moment, Malfoy sank to the floor, sitting with his legs crossed as he usually was when Harry entered at eight o’clock. Only now he was breathing hard, his eyes open and his hair a flurry around his sharp features. 

Harry decided it was worth a gamble and, after a few seconds of silence, sat next to him. Amazingly, Malfoy didn’t hex him. 

“Explain it to me.” Harry said as gently as he could without sounding like a patronising git. 

Malfoy spared him a glance. An agonized one, but a glance all the same. 

“You wouldn’t get it.” He muttered. 

“Try me.” Harry pushed. 

Malfoy clicked his tongue, each thought passing across his face as legible as if he were saying them. Finally, he relaxed with another huff and leaned back on his elbows.

“Fine.” He began, resigned, “What do you know about magical cores?” 

“Not much.” Harry admitted, and Malfoy made a noise as if to say ‘_ obviously’ _and it reminded Harry so much of the Dragon that he had to reorder his thoughts.

“But I remember McGonagall talking about them a bit at the start of the year.” 

“Right.” Said Malfoy, “And do you remember her talking about core entanglement? And soul-fusion? And horrific cases where a witch or wizard who tried to fix an object’s magical core ended up getting it tangled up with their own and _ dying_?” 

Harry gulped, trying not to think about how ‘soul-fusion’ sounded like a niche genre of reggae. 

“I don’t think we got that far.” 

“No,” Said Malfoy, “We didn’t. It’s seventh year shit. But I had to fucking learn all about it in order to fix this fucking thing because it’s core is fucked to oblivion.” 

“That… was a lot of ‘fucks’ in one sentence.” 

“That’s because it’s _ very fucked up_.” A smile ghosted across Malfoy’s mouth and Harry made himself look away. Malfoy scuffed his shoes on the grey flagstones. “It’s all fucked up.” He said, quieter. “I’m fixing a Cabinet to let the guys I used to work for think I’m still working for them. But what happens when they get through? I mean… is Dumbledore really content to let a bunch of Death Eaters run rampant in his school? You’d think the old fart would have come up with a better plan by now.”

Harry genuinely didn’t know what to say to that, because in a lot of ways he was right. Again. Dumbledore _ must _have been capable with coming up with something better. Something that avoided Voldemort and his cronies gaining a direct pathway to the school. So why hadn’t he? It didn’t seem right. There was a huge chunk of all this missing, Harry was sure, and he didn’t even know where to begin looking for it. 

“Dunno.” He said for loss of anything more illuminating. “So, what’s wrong with the core?” 

*

Telling him wouldn’t be good enough, Draco realized, so he showed Potter instead, gleaning more satisfaction than was probably appropriate from the way his face lit up as the Cabinet came to pieces at Draco’s wordless command. 

“I didn’t know you could do wandless magic.” He uttered, transfixed on the flickering fucked up core. 

Draco couldn’t do wandless magic, really, it just so happened he’d performed this spell so many times that it came as naturally to him as breathing. But he was content to let Potter be impressed with him so he just smirked in response. 

“Now I think about it,” Potter began, cocking his head and screwing up his eyes to gaze at the core, “it does look a bit… off.” 

“Sickening, isn’t it?” 

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You haven’t been staring at it for as long as I have.” 

“Good point.” 

Draco stepped further in, right up to the point where he could feel the throbbing heat of the thing. 

“If I touched it now, our souls would fuse and that would be it. I’d never find myself again.” 

“You’d be... a Cabinet man.” 

“For lack of a better phrase, yes. I suppose I would.” Draco couldn’t help but laugh. 

Potter followed, stepping an inch closer to it than Draco was, wincing at the heat. He couldn’t help himself, could he? Classic Potter, always trying to one-up him. Rather than compete, though, Draco just shook his head.

“You’re telling me this thing has a soul?” 

“Of sorts. All magical things do.” 

Potter blew out his cheeks, marveling at it. “I couldn’t even begin to understand how…” 

Draco moved, mostly because he couldn’t stand the sharp heat, but he made a point of grabbing his worn book from his bag, flicking it open to the page he’d practically learnt off by heart. He handed it to Potter. 

“Think of it like this. Muggles make their objects by hacking into the earth and harvesting what they find, yes? Wood, stone, fabric, whatever. But we don’t do that. Not when we _ truly _make something. If you mine the material magically you can preserve its soul without actually destroying it.” 

Potter stared at the pages. “I never knew that was possible.” 

Draco shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. We don’t do it for everything. We can’t have magical tables and chairs lying about in every corner. They’d confuse each other and cause mayhem. But objects like this are a true testament to the skill of a great magician who knew exactly what they were doing when they carved it and assembled it.” Draco regarded the Cabinet. “I still have the urge to smash it to bits, though.” 

Potter glanced up at him, lifting a brow. He looked awfully smug. “Remember when you said it was an antique? You got offended when I told you it was hideous.” 

_ Fuck_. “Well… shut up, Potter.” 

Potter laughed, and then the smile faded off his face. He seemed to have forgotten about the book, holding it loosely at his side. 

“You…” Colour rushed to his rosy face and he pushed up his glasses. “You should really call me Harry.” 

Draco shifted from foot to foot, displaced. “Um. Right. Why?” 

Harry gave an awkward, one-shouldered shrug, mussing up his hair with his free hand. 

“Just feels weird hearing myself called ‘Potter’ all the time. Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.” 

“When are you _ not _in trouble Po-... Harry?” 

_ Merlin _. That felt strange. Not at all natural. The breathy syllables held differently in his mouth. It was easy to spit ‘Potter.’ Not so easy to spit ‘Harry.’ It felt gentler. More sincere. And certainly not something Draco was used to. His unease must have shown on his face, because the Gryffindor was smiling with a barely-suppressed grin. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Oh, calm down you girl. And while we’re at it, you can... call me Draco... if you like. I suppose.” He paused. “If you must.” 

“Generous.” 

“Aren’t I?” Draco remarked, forcing himself to stop there because - and _ yes _ he was well aware - he was flirting. He was becoming startlingly aware of how easy it was to flirt with Pott- _ Harry _ when they weren’t fighting. All they’d ever done was fight. This was new territory. And it felt like Draco was opening himself up and laying himself bare in a way he’d never done before. Not even with his closest friends. Astoria was different - she forced it out of him and it was useless pretending with her because she was just as pathetic as he was in many ways. But Harry. Harry, Harry, Harry. Harry fucking Potter with his ghastly green eyes and hideous hair-cut and terribly bitten down nails was an altogether different kind of fucked up. Because he wasn’t Draco’s friend. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But he wasn’t his enemy either. Not anymore. They were stuck in a limbo and every day he spent with him the more he felt like he was both pushing and _ being _pushed into something far beyond their control. Whatever it was they were doing, they were doing it to each other, and Draco was trying desperately to resist. He had to resist. Because Harry was the Chosen One, and Draco was a Death Eater. No, worse still he was a _failed _Death Eater. There was no place for him in his Golden Trio. Not that he wanted there to be. He didn’t want to be another Granger or Weasley to Harry. He wanted… 

Well, that was just it. What _ did _he want?

*

_ Dear Harry, _

_ Thanks so much for your letter. As disappointed as I am that my team and I couldn’t locate the Dragon, I am of course pleased everyone is safe. If Dumbledore is content it shan’t be bothering you again then that’s good enough for me! I do wish we could have found out more - I’m convinced it was a rare or maybe even entirely undiscovered breed, but alas, it wasn’t to be. It was so kind of you to write and ask about it, but I was needed back in Romania and there’s no point in chasing a lost cause when there’s so much to be done here. _

_ I’m afraid I’ll have to keep it brief - parchment supplies are scarce around here. They usually all end up getting burnt! _

_ Give my love to Ron and the others and let them know I’ll be back at the end of Spring. _

_ All the best, _

_ Charlie W _

“What’s that?” Ron chirped from his bed.

Harry coughed and shuffled the pieces of parchment, pulling out the more recent letter from underneath Charlie’s

“Letter from Tonks.” He said. That part wasn't a lie. 

He hadn’t told Ron about Dumbledore Obliviating his brother yet. His insides churned with guilt at keeping such a secret, but Hermione had agreed it was for the best too. Ron wasn’t ready to hear it. He hated Draco enough as it was, and Harry’s recent lack of animosity towards their long-time rival wasn’t helping. If anything, Ron seemed to have it out for him even _ more_. He’d been re-reading Charlie’s letter, still half-disbelieving that Draco had been right. Charlie didn’t remember anything at all. The proof was right there. And it bothered Harry a lot more than he'd have liked.

Ron didn't catch on to Harry’s suspicious shifting about in his drawer as he buried Charlie’s letter under his socks. 

“How is she?” He asked darkly.

“Better.” Harry settled for. And she was. Her handwriting was still a little wobbly, and she said there were still significantly large gaps in her memory - particularly leading up to Christmas time - but she was herself again. 

Ron clenched his fists, going slightly pale as he sat on the bed next to Harry.

“They didn’t need to do that to her.” 

“Well, you know Death Eaters.” Harry sighed, “Nothing’s past them.” 

“Yeah, mate. I _ do _know.” He said, giving Harry a significant look. There it was. He should have stayed quiet. 

“Ron”-

“I know what you’re going to say, Harry.” Ron interrupted, “And I still can’t really believe you’re defending him after how mad you were on catching him last term, but whatever you might think - whatever he’s doing - he’s still the scum of the earth. He’s only working with you because he’ll die otherwise. He’s a self-preserving jumped up bastard, mate, and don’t you forget it. He’s a _ Malfoy_.” 

Harry wanted to agree with his best friend. He wanted to just leave it, because he didn’t want to fall out with him over Draco of all people, but… 

“Saying that… it makes you sound like them. You can’t rag on Malfoy for being prejudiced and then do it yourself, mate.” 

Ron’s expression became murderous. “Can you hear yourself?" Ron gaped, incredulous, "_I’m _ prejudiced? You only have to look at what the Malfoys have done! _ Are _doing!” 

“I know,” Said Harry in a hushed voice. They were alone in the dorm but anyone could walk in. “I-I know. But I also know he was forced into it. You should have seen the way his mum was around him, it was… really different to what you’d imagine, alright?” 

“Her sister is Bellatrix Lestrange.” Ron said slowly, as though he was genuinely concerned for Harry’s sanity. 

“And your brother is Percy Weasley.” He said at an attempt at humour. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Percy might be a turd but he’s not a murderer. He didn’t kill…” 

He trailed off, bitterness twisting his features into a grimace. 

“He didn’t kill Sirius.” Harry finished for him. “Yes. Thanks for the reminder.” 

Ron huffed. “I’m just worried about you, Harry. I don’t want anything like that to happen again. Especially because of fucking Malfoy.” 

Harry was shaking his head. “It won’t. I wouldn’t let it.” 

Ron was looking at him strangely. “Harry, you can’t control everyth”-

He was cut off by the door banging open as Neville toppled inside, swaying from side to side like one of those wiggly car sale inflatables. 

Ron and Harry exchanged a startled glance before leaping to their feet and getting either side of Neville, helping him to his bed. 

“A’ight lads!” He proclaimed, a lopsided grin plastered across his features. Harry recoiled. He reeked of Firewhiskey.

“You’re _ drunk_.” Said Ron, half-laughing. 

“Nah. Just a bit - _ hic - _ tipsy. I’m not drunk.” He started giggling as they set him down on top of his blankets. “Ha. _ Not. _ I’m… _ Not _ drunk!” At the sight of their confused faces he dissolved even more. “Inside joke… y’wouldn’t get it.” 

“Where’s the party and why weren’t we invited?” Asked Ron. 

Neville was clumsily trying to rid himself of his jumper. “Not a - _ mnphf - _not a party. Just drinks with a... friend. Oh, my head’s stuck. Oh, balls.” 

Harry helped wrestled Neville out of his jumper and shoes. There was a smudge of soil on his nose and a leaf in his hair. Harry brushed it off, wondering how long he’d been pottering around outside like this for and how he hadn’t got caught. 

“It’s a school night, Nev.” Harry chastened him, “This probably wasn’t one of your better ideas.” 

Neville was tapping his nose, wriggling his eyebrows at them both. 

“I know something you don’t know…! Tried to tell but… you ran off. Harry. Harry, you listening?” 

Harry would have found this hilarious if he didn’t feel like Neville was deliberately being coy with him. 

“Yes, still here Neville. What don’t I know? What did you try to tell me?” 

Neville shrugged with a yawn. “Too late now. Was ages ago. And I promised him I wouldn’t say.” 

“Who?” Harry demanded, shaking him as his eyes fluttered shut and he started to snore. “Promised _ who_, Neville? And wouldn't say what? Neville!” 

Ron put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Leave off, mate, look at him. He’s trollied. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying.”

Harry frowned down at Neville’s sprawled, drunk form, feeling once more like he was being played with. 

Ron seemed to read his thoughts on his face. “Harry… not everything is a personal attack, alright? He was just being silly. He’s drunk. Fuck knows why, but it’s nothing for you to worry about… though on second thoughts we should probably grab him a bucket... C’mon. Let’s get to bed.” 

Harry turned away reluctantly, his head full of thoughts. “Yeah. Let's.” 

* * *

The next day, Harry replied to Tonks, sending the letter back with a bar of Honeydukes chocolate tied to it. He’d hardly been awake all day having been up all night _ thinking_. He didn’t like it. Usually that was Hermione’s territory. But he couldn’t help it either. So much was happening, and so much of it was out of his control. It was like Ron had been about to say. He couldn’t control everything. And he despised feeling so helpless. 

He got to the Room of Requirement that night in a similar state, and it was Draco’s small smile of greeting that snapped him out of it. He’d already removed his heavier robes, his collar popped open two-buttons at the top and his sleeves rolled up.

“I hope you’ve come to tell me our exams have been cancelled and our Transfiguration homework has been postponed for a decade.” He quipped as Harry entered. 

Harry shook his head, not quite able to bring himself to smile back. “No. Sorry.” 

Draco’s face fell. “Oh.” He got to his feet and swished his wand, reassembling the Cabinet before Harry’s eyes. 

They spread out their notes and unfortunate homework before them on the upside down couch in silence. 

Harry’s head hurt. His chest hurt. And one of the questions that had been bothering him all night weighed heavy on his shoulders. It tingled at his lips, begging to be asked. 

“What’s got you looking like the bad end of a Hippogryphs arse?” Draco drawled once they’d sat down. 

Harry’s mouth quirked in spite of himself. “There’s a good end?” 

Draco thought about this. “Okay. That’s on me.” He twirled his quill in between his long fingers. “But seriously, if you’re going to be like this all night we may as well just give up now.”

Harry struggled, unease writhing in his stomach. “I...” He sighed, the question still burning the inside of his mouth. “I got a letter from Tonks last night.” 

There was a pause. He studied Draco’s reaction carefully. His face was utterly blank. In the past, Harry wouldn’t have known what that meant. And he hated that he knew Draco well enough now to determine by his forced _blankness_ that he was already well aware of Tonks’ situation. 

Harry sat up straighter, heart thudding. “You know who did it, don’t you? You know who Obliviated her.”

Draco was gazing at his lap, hair falling into his face. His shoulders rose and fell with each visible breath. 

Harry leant forward. 

“Tell me. Draco, please.” 

Perhaps it was because Harry used his first name, but Draco looked up, grey eyes transparent with fear. He licked his lips. 

“Why do you want to know who it is? What difference will it make?” 

“Every difference!” Harry argued. “So I know what to call the coward who hurt my friend and wiped her memory.” He spat. 

Draco’s eyes widened. “She… she can’t remember _ anything_?” 

“She can. She’s okay. _ Mostly_. But that’s not the point.” 

Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Draco look so scared. Not since he’d stood in front of Dumbledore, trembling with exhaustion and shouted at them all, convinced he would die. Convinced his _ family _would die. 

“Harry…” He whispered, pleading.

“Tell me!” Harry pressed. “Just fucking tell me.” 

“It was me.” 

_ No… _

Harry saw a red-shift. 

“If you’re protecting someone”-

Draco stood sharply, distancing himself from Harry. “No. It was me, Potter. _Me._ _I’m_ the coward who did it because I didn’t - I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice shook, but he sounded _ accusing _almost. Like Harry would be wrong to hate him for it. “I didn’t know what else to do!” 

“You could have done nothing!” Harry yelled, legs propelling him forward. He knocked his chair aside, making straight for Draco. “You- I can’t believe it was _ you_. I thought - I thought you were going to say your mother or something. Fuck… _ fuck! _Ron was right. I shouldn’t have let myself think you were anything less than capable of the exact same shit. You’re the fucking same.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see. The Weasel is convinced he’s got me all sussed out and he’s gone snivelling to you because you’re not giving him all the attention. Figures.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Harry yelled, marching forward. Draco backed away until his back slammed into the Cabinet. Its rattles echoed in its empty chamber, quelling the room. “You don’t have the right to say _ anything _ about them, do you understand? They burnt his house down and they - _ you _… you Obliviated Tonks because you were too fucking scared to face up to what you were!” 

“That was before! That was before any of _ this!_” Draco cried back, gesturing to the room with his arms wide. 

This could get ugly very fast if he didn't calm down. Harry forced himself to take a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and waiting for his fists to stop trembling before he could open them and look at Draco again without wanting to utterly destroy him. 

“And what _ is _this exactly, Malfoy? Hm? What is this to you?” 

For a moment, the other boy’s face cracked in near-anguish, but it was clouded over seconds later by a cool, smooth veneer of scorn. 

“Nothing, Potter. It’s nothing.” 

They stared at one another, faces inches apart. And Harry would have believed him - _ oh, he would’ve _\- if it hadn’t been for the soft splay of silver scales inching across Draco’s collar bone and threatening to crawl up the column of his white throat. 

“Liar.” He murmured, before pivoting on his heel and making straight for the door. But he wasn’t done. There was one question left. One he’d almost forgotten to ask. 

He faced Draco when he reached the door. 

“Yesterday, when we were arguing and I interrupted you because I thought you were going to say you still would have been a follower of Voldemort if I hadn’t ‘betrayed you’? What were you actually going to say?”

Draco leaned heavily against the Cabinet, head bowed, his fingers at the glistening scales now adorning his throat beneath the pendant. 

“I was going to say…” He began, his voice ragged, “If you hadn’t… if you hadn’t freed me.” 

_If he hadn't freed him. _

Right.

Harry left the Room of Requirement and, as always, slammed the door. 

  
  



	11. A Small Flame

Malfoy was, unequivocally, throwing a tantrum. 

Harry was sure. 

He didn’t show his face at all over the next few days, and for all of his rage, Harry was starting to get worried.

The night after their argument Harry neglected to visit the Room of Requirement. Not merely for his own benefit. He was quite certain he’d end up hexing Malfoy something spectacular if he saw him again so soon. Besides, he still wasn’t sure how to break the news to Ron and Hermione that _ Draco _was the one who’d obliviated Tonks. So, using what little was left of his patience, he opted to stay out of everyone’s way and catch up on work in the library, trying not to think too hard about how he’d explain their falling out to Dumbledore at the end of the week. 

Then, the next day, Malfoy didn’t turn up to Potions. Or Transfiguration. Or any of their lessons in fact, so Harry had marched to the seventh floor in a temper, ready to serve Malfoy a fresh dolling of what he was owed, only to find himself waiting on the cold stone floor in the exact spot he usually would have found Draco sat cross-legged in front of the dusty Cabinet. The minutes ticked by and Harry left, slumped, almost an hour later. He decided to reserve his anger for tomorrow. But Malfoy didn’t show up the next night either. Or the next. And now it was Friday and Harry had one day to find him and demand an explanation before their weekly check in with the headmaster.

And this was how he _ knew _a tantrum was afoot. 

Because he’d checked the map numerous times and Draco’s name tag was nowhere to be seen. Harry didn’t need the map to know exactly what he’d done.

“Dickhead. First class, ferret-faced, greedy, twat-headed, dickhead.” Harry muttered at the map as he paced the grounds, squinting across at the setting, amber orb making its descent beyond the mountains and casting a rippling glow on the lake’s mirror surface. He crunched the map into his pocket. “Stupid Dragon.” 

His stupid Dragon was out there, basking in the honey rays of the sunset by a valley or a stream. Or, more likely, sulking in the gloomy solitude of his cave picking at animal carcasses. 

Harry thought of the scales on Draco’s neck, winking in the dim musty cavern of a room where they’d spent hours and hours together, hunched over a mouldy sofa arguing over morals and family and Quidditch. His gut clenched with guilt. Which was ridiculous. Because Malfoy had done something unforgivable. And now his mental image of the Slytherin had become even more distorted. Who was he? Was he Malfoy or Draco or a Dragon? Was it possible to be all three at once? Or did he shift in and out of form, fluidly darting from one to the next for the sole purpose of fucking with Harry’s head?

He huffed, scuffing at the grass as he watched low, mottled grey clouds track against the salmon pink sky, so lost in his thoughts that he failed to notice the presence beside him. 

“Good evening, Harry.”

Harry almost swore in his shock, but restrained as he found himself face to face with Dumbledore. 

“Hello, sir.” He mumbled, casting his eyes to the ground and ignoring the speculative blue ones that bored into him from his peripherals. 

“I gather you’re not waiting for the Giant Squid.” The headmaster mused. 

“Why would I be waiting for the Squid, Professor?” 

“Ah,” Dumbledore sighed, gazing wistfully across at the gently rippling lake. “It’s mating season. She’s always rather active this time of year.” 

Harry cringed. “Ugh… lovely.” 

“Nature is the only profound constant we can rely upon in times of turbulence. I often come down here at the change of spring, Harry. It does clear one’s head.” 

Harry was ready to willfully disagree. His head had never been _ less _clear and he highly doubted watching the Giant Squid wave her ten-foot tentacles around in hopes of a shag would help. 

Dumbledore began to tread along the bank, and Harry joined him, sensing the conversation wasn’t over. 

The silence weighed on his ears, as though he was vying for a confession. And Harry, insides roiling with guilt, couldn’t stand it. 

“I can’t find Malfoy, sir.” He sighed at last, just as the sun had made its final plummet over the furthest peak on the horizon. 

Dumbledore stopped, facing him, peering over his spectacles.

“Yes. His disappearing act is getting a little wearisome.” 

Harry grimaced. “I think… it might be my fault.” 

Dumbledore raised a brow. “Your fault, Harry? Did you force him to fly off and abandon his responsibilities?” 

“Not exactly.” Harry shifted from foot to foot. “We had an argument. I mean, we always argue. But it was quite bad this time. He - he told me it was him who Obliviated Tonks.”

Dumbledore’s expression barely faltered. “I see.” 

“Did you know?”

“No.” 

Harry was loath to believe him. He’d grown so used to the idea that Dumbledore knew everything that he thought surely he must have known this. And if he hadn’t before, the information hardly seemed to bother him, and he was miraculously skilled at hiding it if it did. 

He directed his unreadable expression back across the lake, where the darkening sky cast grey shadows on the trenches of his wizened old features. With each day that passed, Harry was sure, the old wizard looked older and older. 

“There are forest fires to the West of Hogsmeade, Harry, did you know? They’ve been blazing for two days, and every time the Centaurs manage to put them out, they flare up again. It’s very difficult to convince them the causes might be natural, given the frost that remains on the ground and Scotland’s scarceness of such natural disasters.” 

Harry blinked, following Dumbledore’s eyeline. The wisps he’d thought were grey clouds turned out not to be clouds at all, but plumes of smoke. 

“Oh, no.” He said under his breath. 

“It is as I said, Harry. Nature is the only profound constant we can rely upon. It rarely changes, especially in parts such as these. I implore you to make peace with Draco Malfoy at whatever cost, or the Centaurs may deem it fit to begin another feud.” 

* * *

That night, with Ron and Hermione by his side, Harry ventured across the grounds in the direction of the fading smoke against the cobalt blue sky. It was easy to see, now, the flicker against the mountain side in the distance. From far away, it was just a small flame - like hundreds of candles had been lit in the barren forests belonging to the Centaurs, but up close Harry could envisage Draco setting the trees alight with torrents of white-hot flame. He shivered, wrapping his cloak around himself, and sped up the pace. 

“Tell me again what happened, Harry?” Hermione quirked from behind him. 

Harry huffed. 

“We had an argument.” 

He could practically hear Ron exchanging a glance with her. 

“It didn’t end well.” Harry elaborated. “I need to talk to him, that’s all.” 

“He’s going to cremate us.” He heard Ron mutter. “This is bloody mental.” 

It was the first time Harry had felt uncertain about facing Malfoy alone. It wasn’t that he needed _ witnesses _as such, and he was well beyond fearing the Dragon it was just… easier this way. 

Especially if they didn’t know why this had happened. 

They came upon Hagrid’s herd of Thestrals soon after, their strange bony faces snuffling the ground in search for food. 

Ron retrieved the scraps of meat they’d smuggled from the kitchen earlier and between them they hustled up two Thestrals to fly past the wards and into Centaur territory. Hermione and Ron shared one, and Harry took his alone.

“This still feels weird.” Ron commented as they took off. “These things have the boniest arse I’ve ever sat on.” 

“Sat on many of those, have you?” Hermione laughed, and the sound jarred in Harry’s ears. 

He’d been a nightmare to deal with all week, he was well aware. Smiles and laughter felt like a thing of the past - the last time he’d done either had been in Draco’s presence. That thought alone sent a surge of guilt lancing through him.

_ No, _ he told himself, _ no guilt… Draco is the one who Obliviated Tonks… you were just angry _. 

The forced reassurances fell flat, and Harry resolved to focus on the flicker way up ahead, drawing nearer and nearer as the Thestrals descended. 

“Oh my god,” Hermione breathed as they landed, the shadows on her horrified expression dancing in the bright light of the fire surrounding them. 

It was like landing into a wall of heat. Harry shielded his face on instinct as they dismounted the Thestrals, the roar of the fires almost deafening, broken up by cracks and creaks as trees fell to ash around them. 

They cast shield charms around themselves, but that didn’t make the scene any less terrible. 

“Mate, what the fuck did you do?” Ron said between gasps. The smoke was cloying. They couldn’t stay for long. 

Harry stared at him, at a loss. He separated from his friends, jogging into the thick of the heat and gazing around the apocalyptic scene around them desperately. 

“Dragon!” He yelled, his voice drowning in the chaos. But it wouldn’t matter. He knew Malfoy would hear him. 

Whether he would come out though… 

“His _ name, _ Harry!” Hermione shouted, casting an _ Aguamenti_. A hiss sounded and a miniscule portion of the blaze blackened as Hermione quenched the flame. Ron did the same, dousing the area around them in water. 

Harry gripped his own wand, his thoughts a ragged mess. 

His name. 

Right.

“DRACO MALFOY, GET HERE RIGHT NOW!” 

Fire answered him, crawling up trees and snaking through bushes, destroying everything in its wake and inching closer and closer. 

He swiped his wand across it carelessly, creating wind instead of water which did nothing to prevent the spread of fire. 

“What do you want?!” He cried, “What do you want me to _ say _?!” When no Dragon appeared, he stomped in a circle, “Godric, you are so dramatic! Come back!” 

If Malfoy wanted him to go _ into _the fire, so help him he would. He’d prove it to everyone and himself that Draco could throw all the tantrums he wanted but he wouldn’t scare Harry. No fucking way. 

Harry lunged forward, ready to run into the burning forest, only to be stopped by Hermione’s fist tugging him back by his cloak. 

He spun around, “_What?! _”

Her soot-smudged face was alight with fear. Not fear of the flames or even the Dragon. But of _ him_. 

“Harry… please, don’t do this again.” 

He shoved her off. “Do _ what_, Hermione?” 

Her face crumpled and hardened. “Run off and leave us for some self-sacrificing bullshit reason! You’re going about this all wrong, yelling and stomping and _ demanding_! It doesn’t work!” 

He took a step back, breathless, too terrified of her fear of him to be angry with her. “What else am I supposed to do?” 

Hermione gave a single shake of her head, her honey-glazed eyes glistening with sadness.

“Apologise, Harry. You have to apologise to him.” 

Harry stared at her first, realizing she was deadly serious, then at his surroundings, taking in the scene in a heartstopping moment. Ron battled the oncoming flame alone, his expression already battle-worn from years of fighting by Harry’s side. Then the fire itself, an amalgamation of Draco’s energy; his rage, his hurt and his fear. The atmosphere was permeated with it - Harry had mistaken it for his own, and even for Hermione’s. But the fear wasn’t his. It was Draco’s. It was _ all _Draco’s. 

Harry threw off his cloak, unable to bear the heat of it and faced the destruction, the hot breeze blowing over him and clearing his head. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, Draco.” 

And then, because there was absolutely no way Draco could have heard him,

“I’M SORRY!” 

It tore out of him, into the fire and into the sky, and like a spell, it brought his Dragon back to him. 

Draco emerged from the wave of fire, glowing crimson amongst it, his silver scales reflecting every flicker of flame he’d surrounded himself with in a blinding shimmer. 

He was small, though, hardly larger than his human size, his wings folded behind his back and his clear eyes focused completely on Harry. 

Harry fell to his knees at the Dragon’s feet, wrought with guilt and the tang of Draco’s own fear. 

“I’m sorry,” He said again, his voice hoarse. “I know you’ve been trying to trust me. To trust that what you’re doing is right. And it _ is_. It is right... I know you were scared when you hurt Tonks and I know you’re still scared now. I can’t… I mean I still don’t _ understand _ , it isn’t _ right _ what you did, but... - ugh, I don’t know… I didn’t want to believe you’d changed because I was scared, too, alright? I was scared because - because sometimes you’re right and it fucks me up, Draco! Like everything I was told when I was eleven was just a version of a truth that someone else had made for me, and it was easier to believe they were right. I know you’re scared they’re going to use you as a weapon and - I get it. Because that’s what I’m afraid of as well. I don’t want to be another tool to them - I can’t stand the thought that it’s all we are. Weapons in a fight. We have to be more, but I… I don’t know what to do. So I blamed you, because it was easier. It’s like everyone _ wanted _me to blame you. But I can’t, anymore. Because... you deserve more. You deserve our help. And I want to… to help you. I’m sorry, Draco. You don’t have to forgive me, just… don’t hurt yourself. Not over this. Not over me.” 

Harry hung his head, half-believing he was, as Ron had predicted, about to be incinerated. Either that or he’d fucked it completely and Draco would fly off and resume his tirade over the forest. 

Instead, there was silence. It was as if the flames that had seconds ago roared and raged dwindled down to the size of buds, each one going out like the stars did as daylight dawned, only instead of daylight the forest was plunged into sizzling darkness. The real stars became clearer as the smoke dissipated into the mountains.

“You really think I would hurt myself over you?” 

Harry looked up, convinced he was imagining Draco’s voice, only to find the other boy kneeling opposite him. He was coated in ash and leaves, his skin paler than snow but his eyes still blazing as bright as though the fire was still there. 

“Your arrogance is boundless, did you know that, Potter?” 

And he was _ smiling _. Barely. But enough for Harry to know he’d forgiven him. 

He gazed at him, his tongue clawing his throat for words, but none came. 

Thankfully, he didn’t need to say anything, because exhaustion had its hold on Draco and drew his eyes shut. He fell forward until his forehead was resting on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Sorry.” He heard Draco’s mumble into his clothes. “M’still awake.” 

Harry placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders, holding him steady. His skin was red-hot. It burned Harry’s palms. But he didn’t let go. “It’s okay.”

Footsteps crunched in the ash behind them. Hermione was holding Harry’s cloak. 

Her expression was unreadable as she draped it over Draco’s shoulders. 

“He doesn’t feel very cold.” Said Harry. “I don’t think he needs it.” 

“No, but I am very naked.” Came Draco’s quiet reply, the smirk holding itself in his tone. 

“Oh.” Harry felt himself flush as he tried to look everywhere _ except _Draco, “Right.” 

*

Draco thought he did a marvellous job of retaining his dignity, all things considered. It wasn’t the peak of fashion, but he managed to tie Harry’s cloak around his waist before being helped to his feet by the Gryffindor in question. Weasley’s eyes were on him like a hawk the whole time, and Draco made a point of smirking at Harry’s best friend - just because it was satisfying to see the other boy’s face redden with blustering infuriation. Granger, on the other hand, was watching him with the kind of cautious insight that put him on edge. Like she knew exactly what every single one of them was thinking, but was deliberately holding back from saying so. 

But Draco found it difficult to look Harry in the eye after everything he’d said. He was covered in soot and his shirt collar was open, his hair a frenzied black halo around his serious, strong-angled face, and he had one arm slung around Draco’s waist, guiding him forward without a hint of reluctance. 

Taunting Weasley was far easier to manage. Or rather would have been, were every muscle in his body not sagging with fatigue. 

“Oh - bloody - the fire scared them off!” Granger shrieked, pulling at her nest of frizzy hair. 

“Scared who off?” Draco whispered loud enough for Harry to hear.

Harry gave him a sideways glance. “We, ah, came on Thestrals.” 

“You didn’t think to use a broom?” 

“Hermione can’t stand to be on one.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Why aren’t I surprised?” 

While Granger scuttled off into the parts of the forest Draco hadn’t got around to burning yet, Weasley was giving him a glower that spelled murder. 

“When are you going to spit out whatever it is you’re clearly dying to say?” Draco sighed, not quite as up for taunting Weasley as he’d thought. 

The redhead visibly bristled. Harry’s arm around Draco’s waist tightened.

“Please don’t fight.” He said, always the diplomat. “I didn’t bring you here to fight.” 

With a jolt, Draco realized Harry was addressing Weasley, not him. His arm felt strong around his middle, and even though Draco was usually the taller one he found himself looking up at Harry thanks to his exhausted stoop. 

Weasley’s wand tightened in his grip, his knuckles turning white. 

“I just don’t want _ him _” - he jabbed his wand at Draco - “causing more trouble for us. We’re not supposed to be drawing attention to ourselves and now we’re out here, unprotected.” 

“It’s not even been an hour, Ron, we’ll be okay if we get back soon. And besides, we can’t rely on the wards forever. You know that.” Harry talked him down quietly. Draco had the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this kind of conversation. 

Weasley made a scathing sound and turned his back on them, following Granger into the woods to look for the Thestrals. 

The crunch of dead trees could still be heard all around them as the smoke and ash lifted, revealing the full extent of Draco’s destruction. 

Harry lowered them both to the ground so Draco could conserve energy, and neither of them were looking at one another. 

“I hope…” Harry began, picking soot from the tips of his hair, “I hope you don’t think this was a rescue mission.” 

Draco had been about to accuse him of exactly that, but he hadn’t counted on Harry actually being aware of it. 

“I didn’t _ need _ rescuing.” Said Draco delicately. 

Harry’s mouth turned up at one corner and a burst of heat spread through Draco’s chest. With his torso bare, he felt like Harry’s eyes were burning into his chest like an x-ray, examining every thought and feeling hung across his ribcage on full display.

“No, that was very obvious.” Harry sighed again, pushing his smudged glasses up his nose. Draco regarded him; the sheepish hunch of his shoulders and the way he kept pulling his hands through his hair. There was no anger there. No fury or resentment. Whatever hatred had burned behind Harry’s eyes the other day, it was gone now. 

He changed like the weather. 

“Did you really mean everything you said?” Draco asked, wondering if it would all get spat back in his face, “Or were you just saying that to get me to change back so you could stay in Dumbledore’s good books?” 

Harry exhaled hard, meeting Draco’s eyes properly for the first time since his apology. 

“I was telling the truth.” 

He was. Draco knew what the face of a liar looked like. He’d seen it again and again in his own reflection. He was getting quite sick of it. Honesty was much easier, in the end. 

“Then I’m sorry too.” 

Harry gaped at him, his expression wonderfully open and surprised. He gathered himself and conjured a grin. 

“Draco Malfoy apologizing? Never thought I’d see the day.” 

Draco couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. 

Harry helped Draco up onto his Thestral when Granger and Weasley finally came back looking dishevelled and tired with two of the beasts in their wake, (Draco held on tightly to Harry’s cloak around his hips as they mounted. It was slipping dangerously and he was quite worried it would fly off in the sky and then he’d just be a naked boy riding a Thestral in the middle of the night with the Chosen One. As marvellous as it sounded, he didn’t greatly relish the prospect so he held onto the cloak like a lifeline) and then they were off. Back to Hogwarts. Like they had never argued and Draco hadn’t in fact been living off raw venison for the past three days. 

Between the cloak and Harry’s waist, there wasn’t much for Draco to hang onto, and he realized how much he preferred flying when he was in control of it. Broomsticks were great, but having wings was even better. 

Thankfully for him, Harry’s back was solid, the warmth of his skin tangible through his shirt. Draco tried not to hold on too tightly, but at some point he managed to get his chin in the crook of Harry’s shoulder and his neck, and he noticed him stiffen ever so slightly. 

But rather than shove him off as Draco feared, however, Harry laughed. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” 

A small flame ignited in the pit of Draco’s stomach, and for a moment he was worried he would transform again. Until he realized it had nothing to do with the Curse and more to do with the half-smile Harry was throwing over his shoulder at him.

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m quite capable of flying myself.” Draco snapped back, heat creeping onto his face. 

“Then do it,” Harry challenged, “I dare you.” 

“You wish, Potter.” 

The Thestral jerked in the air, as if accepting his proposition and resolving to throw them off. Draco clung onto Harry for dear life, and Harry grasped his wrist in response. There was absolutely no doubt Harry would be able to feel Draco’s heart beating by how close his chest was pressed into his back. 

“It heard you.” Draco laughed breathlessly, pulling away only to feel Harry... _ lean back _... No. He had to be imagining it. It was such a miniscule movement. It could easily just be more Thestral turbulence. 

Harry didn’t let go of Draco’s wrist. Even when they were close to the ground. 

Granger conjured the basic components of a uniform for him when he got down so that on the off chance he got caught by a teacher wandering around at night, at least he’d be clothed appropriately. 

Draco changed in the forest while the others walked ahead to give him some privacy, but he could still hear them muttering urgently. They didn’t even wait until he was out of earshot. He didn’t catch specific words, just a general tone of dislike, the loudest being Weasley’s. Predictable. 

He waited to hear Harry’s voice, but it didn’t come. 

Draco was shivering. Even when he was layered up - shirt, jumper, cloak, everything - his limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. His teeth chattered, but he wasn’t cold. 

He was, quite literally, shaken. Harry’s words clamoured around his skull in no particular order making no particular sense, but as soon as he thought them the tiny fire-pit inside him flared as though he’d fed it fresh fuel.   
But it would go unspent. Because Weasley and Granger were here. Hanging over their shoulders. Watching. Judging. Waiting to dole out an appropriate punishment for Draco. However much Draco had loathed Harry in the past for his self-righteous Chosen One nonsense, he loathed Granger and Weasley all the more for it. They had a _ choice_. Their simpering, martyred natures weren’t the result of reluctant lifelong fame as it had been for Harry, they were just… _ like _that. 

Draco couldn’t wrap his head around it. He didn’t particularly want to. The thought of spending a moment in Granger _ or _ Weasley’s (but particularly Weasley) headspace made him grimace. 

With this thought in mind, Draco was ready to leave them to it and slip off to his dorms, unnoticed, but Harry called out to him.

“Draco?” 

Draco hadn’t even realized he’d been tailing them from a distance. He was doing a terrible job of trying not to look shady. He sped up, bolting through the trees to join Granger and Harry. Weasley was gone. Small mercies. 

The two Gryffindors exchanged a look full of meaning, and it sent his pulse flickering. 

Draco waited for the sentence. For the ‘I can’t help you anymore.’ For the ‘Maybe it’s best if you handle this alone. We just can’t get on.’ 

He tried to smother his clamouring heart, to suffuse the dread with the realization that this had been a long time coming. But that didn’t make it any easier. 

He swallowed thickly. 

Just _ get on with it _… he thought, as they stood there shifting from foot to foot and giving each other strange telepathic glances. 

“I told Hermione about your problem with the Vanishing Cabinet.” Harry burst out, his expression suddenly becoming apprehensive. As if he expected Draco to be angry. As if Draco hadn’t already known that he was relaying every detail of their interactions to his minion do-gooders. 

“Okay?” He prompted with a shrug. “And?” 

They swapped another glance and Draco couldn’t bear it anymore. 

“For Merlin’s sake,” He sighed, “If you’re about to suggest Granger knows a way to fix the Cabinet that I haven’t already thought of - and I say this with absolutely no ill intent - please kindly move the fuck on. Not every answer can be found in the library.” At Granger’s pout, he continued, “I _ checked_. Multiple times.” 

“Actually I wasn’t going to say that.” She interrupted as Harry opened his mouth. “I _ have _read up a lot on Magical Cores, though, and I… think you might be approaching the problem in the wrong way.” 

Draco’s disgust must have shown on his face, because Harry was looking between them both with mounting panic. 

“We - we just wanted to suggest another way… she might be able to help. Sometimes an outside perspective..” He trailed off, his eyes pleading. 

Draco couldn’t believe this. _ Granger? _ Help _ him_? Well, in the end she wasn’t really helping _ him_, was she? She was helping Dumbledore.

They all were.

He ground his teeth. “As sceptical as I am, you’re obviously ready to pop a vein you’re so desperate to try out your little theory. You can look at the Cabinet if you want. But not now. I have to sleep.” 

The glimmer that ignited in Granger’s eyes at the prospect of examining the Cabinet was actually quite scary. 

It was still hard to look at Harry. The shivering feeling hadn’t gone away, and as fatigued as he should have been, he felt like he could run miles on the strange buzz of electricity tingling through his spine. 

“Where’s Weasley?” He snapped, looking around them in an effort to avoid Harry’s gaze. 

Granger’s expression flattened. “He was too tired.” 

“And far from enthusiastic about the idea of assisting a Death Eater, I’ll imagine.” He quipped back, unable to help himself. 

Granger looked mildly horrified at his casual reference to his old allegiance. Harry just rolled his eyes. If Draco wasn’t mistaken, it seemed oddly fond. 

*

Hermione wasted no time. She followed Harry into the Room of Requirement, rolling up her sleeves, her face already flushed from her determined march up to the seventh floor. The lead up to this moment had had Harry on tenterhooks all day. For the life of him, he had no idea why he was so _ nervous_. 

It had nothing to do with Hermione. Or Draco. He’d spent enough time with both of them to be _ used _to them, by now. 

It was something about this space - this time of night... Hermione’s presence added a new layer to the situation. An intrusion into a space that before had only belonged to he and Draco. Harry had to consciously rid himself of the notion as he entered the room, heart slamming against his ribcage. 

Draco wasn’t in his usual spot in front of the Cabinet. The record wasn’t playing either, the vintage husk of the woman’s voice starkly missing from the ambience of the dank, junk-filled chamber. 

Draco perched on one of the stools by the upturned sofa, long legs crossed, his well-worn books lying open across his knees and his blond hair falling over his eyes as though he was entirely absorbed in his reading. 

Harry knew better. 

He’d seen Draco quote the very page he had opened by heart. This was all for show. 

He stood briskly as Hermione came closer, like he was greeting her for a business meeting. 

“Granger.” He said serenely, barely awarding Harry a momentary glance. 

“Malfoy.” She glared back, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Harry couldn’t blame her. He was acting… weird. 

Weirder than usual.

He strode over to Cabinet, indicating to it with a lazy flick of his wand. 

“I assume you know what it does.” He began, circling it once before coming to a halt by its side, like a salesman ready to perform a pitch, his posture rigidly straight. “Would you like me to take it apart or would you like to do it yourself?” 

Hermione plonked herself down on the stool Draco had abandoned, picking up his book and flicking through the pages with feverish curiosity. Only Harry noticed Draco’s mouth twitch ever so slightly. Uh oh. 

“You do it,” She replied, pouring over the words, “Where did you get this?” 

“My parent’s library.” Said Draco, carefully watching her even as he disassembled the Cabinet non-verbally. “You won’t find a copy at Hogwarts. Even in the restricted section. It’s very old. And very… fragile.” 

Hermione was immune to his passive aggressive hints as she flicked the wafer thin pages back and forth from cover to cover. 

Harry was making every effort to get Draco to look at him, but the other boy had his stone-cold grey eyes fixed determinedly on Hermione, tapping his foot in fastidious rhythm as she ignored his silent, irritated protest. 

Harry cleared his throat. Both of them looked up at him, as though they’d quite forgotten he was there. 

“So?” He started, “What are we going to do?” 

Hermione closed the book, and the way Draco’s shoulders instantly relaxed would have been comedic had Harry not felt so irrationally irked at being treated like an unwitting third wheel. 

He made to show this to Draco through a look, but the Slytherin avoided his eyes. _ Again_.

“I’d like to know what you think I’ve been doing wrong.” He addressed Hermione outright, posing a challenge. 

Hermione took it unflinchingly. “Why can’t you access your core, Malfoy?” 

Draco visibly flinched. “It’s not that I”- he faltered, “I mean it’s not that simple”-

Hermione crossed her legs, regarding him shrewdly from the crooked little stool. 

“Oh, but it is. It’s the easiest part of the process when it comes to Core work. Or at least, it _ should _be. So, what’s the problem?” 

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitched as he clamped his mouth closed, pinned to the spot in tight, straight-backed formation by Hermione’s verbal attack. He hadn’t relaxed for a single moment since they’d got here. Harry wondered whether it was Hermione making him nervous. But _ why_? He usually had no trouble confronting her with foul-mouthed taunts and jibes. But now he was so... wound up. Harry felt a strong, uncontrollable urge to take him apart. To untwist every fibrous muscle in his body. To disassemble him the same way he’d disassembled the cabinet, laying him bare and getting him to _ stop acting like they were uncomfortable strangers. _

Harry took an audible inhale, willing himself back to reality. 

Reality was getting a little too tense for his liking. 

“Hermione, can you just… get to your theory?” Harry said meekly. 

She turned on him, very much a look of ‘whose side are you on?’ on her face. He grimaced in response, offering a helpless shrug. He wasn’t sure who he was more worried about antagonizing - her or Draco. Between them, they exuded sparks that could turn into a full blown fire at any moment. Quite literally in Draco’s case. 

“Alright.” Hermione retorted tightly, springing out of her seat to breeze past Draco and inspect the Cabinet.

Its magical core shifted the light as it flickered a sickly greenish tinge from amidst its floating components. 

Harry tore his eyes away from it to glower at Draco who _ still _wasn’t acknowledging him. He made a point of striding to stand by Hermione, so he was closer to the both of them. 

“Fascinating.” Hermione muttered. 

“And unfathomable.” Draco sighed, glaring at it with a hatred Harry remembered being directed at him once. Not so long ago, in fact. It was incredible how quickly he’d forgotten how much Draco had once despised him and perhaps, deep down, still did. 

Harry thrust his hands into his pockets, getting more and more irritated with himself by the minute. None of that was important. They were here to help. That was all. Godric only knew, he owed it to Draco after the trouble he’d caused this week. The guilt had simmered down to a stew since last night, not quite gnawing anymore but still unsettling him. 

Feeling Draco’s eyes on him, Harry looked up, but the other boy’s glance darted away and he began to pace, tapping his chin with one of his long, white fingers. 

Hermione had her eyes shut, her wand held loosely in her left hand. Her expression became one of great calm. 

“Oh,” She said, letting out a small laugh, “Yes. There it is.” 

Draco stopped pacing. 

“You found it?” He asked, wide-eyed. 

Hermione opened her eyes. “Yes,” She smiled, a hint of smugness there. “I found it.” 

“Found what?” Asked Harry, lost. 

“The core.” They both answered at once. 

Draco looked as though he might snap his wand in half in frustration. Or Hermione’s. 

“How the fuck did you do that, Granger?” He growled, eyeing her from over top of the pulsating core. 

She regarded him coolly. “I already know what my own core feels like, so I just had to dig a bit deeper and there was the Cabinet’s, all exposed. It’s quite disturbed at the moment. There’s a lot of your magic there, too.” She winced, “It felt a little… biting.” 

Draco’s chest was rising and falling with barely concealed fury. 

“Tell me how.” He demanded. 

“How, what?” 

_ “How you found your own sodding core!” _

Harry was relieved when Hermione opted to step back rather than invoke more of his wrath. He knew how much it pleased her to infuriate him, but this anger was different. It wasn’t so much directed at her as it was at himself. Harry recognized it - and he recognized how short Draco’s fuse became when the issue was his own. It was the worst of all his anger. The hardest to calm. Harry wished he knew how to…

He could learn. He _ would _ learn, he decided. If only to put his own mind at rest. Sometimes Draco’s bouts of self-hatred truly bothered him. He’d never seen anything like it. Not in _ anyone_. 

Hermione chewed her lip in the pause, frowning at the core. 

“It’s different for you, Malfoy. It doesn’t matter how much you know about cores and the theory, it’s… I don’t think the same rules apply to you.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes, but he was listening. “Why?” 

“Because of your” - she swallowed, casting an apprehensive look at Harry - “ailment.” 

Draco snorted. “I’m _ cursed_, Granger. Not diseased. However much it might feel like it.” 

She huffed, stomping to sit back down in the stool. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have worded it like that.” 

Draco blinked, apparently unused to having Granger agree with him, but Harry knew she was beyond petty personal qualms right now. She was deep in analysis mode. She turned her probing gaze on the Slytherin. 

“What do you feel when you look for your core?” 

Harry watched as Draco struggled with every instinct to throw back a sarcastic reply, 

“The Curse. It’s all I ever find when I look. It’s everywhere.” He turned, pacing, and shot his response at a point in the distance, refusing eye contact with either of them. 

Hermione hummed. 

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since Harry told me about what you’re trying to do but… you don’t think that the Curse - if that’s what it is - maybe… _ is _your core?” 

Draco whipped around to face her, panic alighting his gaunt features. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid.” 

“Don’t talk to her like that.” Harry warned, stepping closer. But when Draco finally turned his eyes on him, there was no fury there. Only fear. More fear. And it hurt - it physically hurt to see it burning there with so much vulnerability that Harry was amazed he hadn’t noticed it before now. He wished he hadn’t noticed it at all. Life was easier when he’d thought Draco was just a twat. 

“Just… listen to her, okay?” Harry tried again. He didn’t want Draco to think he was angry with him. Not again. 

Draco held his gaze a moment longer, and some of the fire that burned in the icy grey pools dwindled. Harry’s attention drifted to the movement of his throat as he swallowed hard. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “For goodness sake.” She stood again, folding her arms. “It’s not entirely unreasonable that the Curse _ might _be a part of your soul. You can admit that, at least?” 

Draco’s lips formed a hard, neat line. He gave a stiff nod. “I suppose. It - it might be possible.” 

“So when you access it, what happens?” 

“I turn into a bloody Dragon, Granger.” 

“Is there a way for you to access it and… you know… _ not _ do that?”

Draco barked an ironic laugh. “Funnily enough, I’ve tried. And _ no_. There isn’t. The Curse is off limits, alright? It can’t have anything to do with the work I’m doing here. The Cabinet’s magic is too delicate.” 

“But”-

“I said _ no_, Granger.”

There was a finality to his statement that placed a very definite full stop on the debate. However concrete Hermione’s theory might be, Draco wasn’t having it. He was flexing his fingers, pacing around the Cabinet in obvious disarray. 

Harry had never actively gone looking for his magical core. He’d never needed to. But he knew he could find it if he wanted. He could feel it when he concentrated, bubbling under the surface of his skin like quicksilver. The closest feeling to it was - 

“Wait.” 

An idea struck, and if it worked… if it _ worked_. Well. It might change everything. 

Draco threw him an exasperated glance. “What now?” 

“There might be another way to access your core. Or your soul. Whatever it is.” 

Hermione and Draco shared an expression of cynicism. Everyone’s lack of faith in Harry’s ideas was getting a little hurtful, but this wasn’t about his feelings. 

It was about Draco’s.

“Draco, have you ever been able to conjure a Patronus?” 

He allowed himself a small smile as Draco’s expression transformed. 

“No. I haven’t.” 

Hermione tilted her head. _ “Oh.” _She exhaled. 

“Yes, _ oh. _” Harry grinned. “A Corporeal Patronus is literally a physicalization of your soul. Get that, and you’ll be able to access the Cabinet’s magical core in no time.” 

He liked the sparks of hope that brightened Draco’s eyes as he spoke. He liked that he’d done that. He liked it even better when he got to say,

“I can teach you.” 

Draco raised a brow, amusement unveiling the shadow that had been ghosting his features all night. 

“You? Teach me?” He pushed his hair back off his face, considering Harry’s proposal. “I suppose I don’t have a better idea. Bring it, Potter.”

  
  



	12. Happy Memories

_ Dear - _

No.

_ To whomever this may concern - _

Absolutely not. Draco erased it. Started again. 

_ I don't know if this news has already reached you - _

The tone was all off. He had to be more direct. Less faffing. 

_ I'm sorry. _

Draco stared at those words. He drank them in, unblinking, until his eyes burned. He scrunched up the parchment and dropped it by his folded knees, watching as the dew-soaked grass bled the ink until the words were incomprehensible. He sighed, taking in lungfuls of misty morning air. 

Draco had chosen the perfect time to take his morning walk - too chilly to attract any other students and certainly far too early for a weekend. 

He loathed Sundays. Socialising and skipping off work didn’t suit him, and that was all Sundays were good for. He had no one to socialize with, no desire to, and most of the work he had left to do related to double crossing his family and helping Dumbledore defeat the man he’d been branded by. His forearm itched, as if sensing his betrayal. 

Knowing the Dark Lord, his tattoo might be equipped to read his thoughts.

But also knowing the Dark Lord, Draco would be dead by now if it could.

He was safe for now.

That wasn’t making his situation any easier. He’d hardly slept at all last night - even less than usual. Guilt tore him up from the inside. He had no idea where it had come from, all this guilt, but since his awful argument at the start of the week with Harry and the apologies that followed, it had shown itself; emerged like an endless well of shame and unease. And now that it was here, it was like he’d always _ known _ it was there, he just hadn’t been able to tap into it before. Fear got in the way. Hatred got in the way. But he didn’t _ hate _Harry anymore. He hated how Harry had looked at him. How he’d shouted at him and left him, reeling and terrified of himself in the Room of Requirement the night he’d revealed he was the one who’d Obliviated Tonks, but… 

He didn’t hate him. He couldn’t.

His first lesson with Harry was tonight, and on top of the guilt he was shit scared of fucking something else up. What if he couldn’t produce a corporeal patronus? What if he didn’t _ have _one? What if the Dragon had torn up that part of him, and that was why he could hurt people the way he had? 

What if Draco had no soul? 

The idea filled him with bottomless dread. And it was what motivated him to yank a clean scrap of parchment from his bag and hover his quill over the page again. He was lost. He didn’t know what to write. But he knew he had to fix it. 

And he was trying, he really was, but he kept getting distracted. One such distraction walked towards him now, tramping across the grounds with a look of determination etched on her features. 

“Morning.” Astoria called brightly, despite her searching gaze.

Draco sighed. It was too late to run away. 

“What do you want?” He responded icily as she reached him, taking care to stuff the discarded letter attempts into his bag.

“You’re avoiding me again. Why are you avoiding me?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Astoria. Not everything is about you.”

He resisted the temptation to glance up at her scowl. She didn’t sit on the ground. Instead, she chose to tower over him, folding her arms. 

“I thought we had a good chat in the library last time.”

Draco raised a brow, finally meeting her stormy glare. “You mean when you tried to convince me we should still get married?”-

-“We _ should _”- 

\- “And that’s exactly why I don’t want to talk to you.” He finished, quite determined for the conversation to end. 

Astoria regarded him as he stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. She wore the same expression Granger had the other night, a probing kind of look that instantly made him uncomfortable. It had to be a girl thing. 

“I just… don’t believe you’re a Death Eater, Draco.” She said quietly, catching him completely off guard.

He spun around to face her fully. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

She chewed her lip. “You’re not, are you?” _ Merlin, _she didn’t hang around. But the hope in her voice went straight to the well of guilt that now existed as a gaping hole in his middle, echoing amidst the dread and fear.

What Draco _ was _ or _ was not _was, at this point, far too confusing to be considered. He opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, still registering her question and unsure whether he should be angry or not. 

He drew in a long breath through his nose, clamping his jaw shut and pulling himself to full height. 

“You know my family, Astoria.” He replied simply, watching the implication of those words flit across her aristocratic features and flood with realization. 

She frowned. “I’m not scared of you. I want to be your friend again.” 

He barked a laugh, not really meaning it, and instantly hating himself for the brief flash of hurt in her eyes.

“No you don’t.” 

He turned away from her, already exhausted from pretending. She caught up with him as he strode along the lakeside. 

“Don’t tell me what I want. I get enough of that from snout-face.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. She had to skip to keep up with him, she was that much shorter. 

“I don’t care.” He insisted. 

“Yes, you _ do_.” She insisted right back. 

He stopped dead still. She slid a couple of steps forward, startled by the sudden motion.

“Astoria, you sound like a fucking Hufflepuff. Your new girlfriend must be rubbing off on you.”

She smirked, and he understood the innuendo too late after he’d said it. 

“For Merlin’s sake, grow up.” He spat, trying not to react to her ridiculous grin. 

“As much as I’d love that kind of action, she’s not a Hufflepuff.” Her expression faltered slightly. “And she’s not my girlfriend... _ yet _.”

He grimaced. “Don’t be tragic.” 

Astoria toyed with the glinting silver braid in her hair. 

“I’d say we’re both pretty tragic at this point, wouldn’t you?” 

She wasn’t wrong, but he couldn’t afford to have her around. Not now. He had his lesson with Harry to think about. He had his letter to write. He had to go to the library and read up on Patronuses before -

Draco blinked. Astoria’s hand was on his arm, pressing lightly.

“Dude. That wasn’t supposed to _ actually _offend you.” 

He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. 

“No, I just… zoned out for a moment. I’m not sleeping well.” 

She had the decency not to look sympathetic. “Me and you both, babe.” 

Draco pulled himself together, trying to catch up to the moment. He couldn’t let his thoughts run away with him. Not in front of other people. Especially someone as sneakily observant as Astoria. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so determined to… ‘be my friend’.” He accentuated her words back at her. “Everyone hates me. You know that, right? Your little Ravenclaw friends will drop you like a hat if they see us talking.” 

Astoria shrugged. “Then they’re not real friends.” 

Draco scowled. “Did Dumbledore put you up to this?” 

The instantaneous wince of disgust that passed across her face told him everything he needed to know. 

“_Dumbledore? _Suck a dick, Malfoy. Actually, no. You’d like that. Suck a… a…” She furrowed her brow in concentration.

He smiled in spite of himself. “Don’t hurt yourself, Greengrass.” 

The other Slytherin sighed, relaxing her shoulders. “I would never do anything for that cretinous excuse of a teacher.”

Draco inwardly squirmed. “Not even if you had to?” 

“Had to?” She cocked her head. “Why would I _ have _to? I don’t care about getting expelled, if that’s what you mean.” 

“No, I mean… what if your family were in danger and… you weren’t given a choice.” _ Shut up _ , he willed himself to no avail, _ shut up, shut up, shut up- _

Astoria’s eyes skewered him. “Draco, what the hell is going on?” 

He was pinned down by the softness of her voice. The unblinkered comfort it brought reminded him of moments years ago when he hadn’t been able to confide in anyone else. When she had been the only one to see his wounds when words failed him. 

No, he wouldn’t tell her everything, but… he’d tell her _ something. _Part of the truth, but not all of it. He took a deep breath. 

* * *

Later, when the mist had risen off the lake’s surface, the dew had dried and the first flurry of third years heading to Hogsmeade had passed over the grounds, Astoria and Draco sat in silence, their backs against a tree. 

“I had no idea.” Astoria broke the silence after what felt like an age. “Dumbledore really fucked you over, didn’t he?” 

Draco exhaled. “I fucked myself over. Royally. _ Then _he fucked me over, yeah.” 

Astoria turned to him, her expression alight with fury. 

“How can you think this is your fault?” 

He blinked. “What?” 

“You were trying to protect your family. You won’t tell me why, but - you’d do anything for them, Draco. Now _ you’re _the one suffering because of their shitty choices. It isn’t your fault. You didn’t want to be a Death Eater.” 

“No, I didn’t.” He agreed. But he didn’t agree this wasn’t his fault. _ He _ was a Dragon. _ He _was making his parents keep a thousand secrets. But Astoria didn’t know that part. She obviously knew there were chunks of the story missing, but he was glad when she didn’t press. 

She sat in rage-filled silence a while longer, shaking her head. 

“Merlin, I want to throttle someone.” 

“You’re welcome to throttle me. It would make things a lot easier.” 

He thought she’d laugh. She didn’t.

“Don’t say that.” 

He faced outwards again, the lake’s pristine surface disturbed by a curved ripple coming from its depth. It could be the Squid. Or the merpeople. Draco thought about how much easier life would be as the Giant Squid. He sort of envied it, really. Minus the sliminess. 

“You really were a Death Eater.” Astoria breathed, part in awe and part in horror. 

“For a moment there… yeah.” Draco flexed his arm instinctively, curling it into his cloak. Astoria’s eyes tracked the movement. 

“And it was Potter who”-?

-“Found me out. Yeah.” Draco laughed. “I still don’t know how he found me.” 

“He was a hundred percent stalking you, man.” She snorted, “You’ve always been weirdly obsessed with each other but honestly, when you went missing after Christmas he was like… I dunno… manic. Bit scary actually, for Dumbledore’s Chosen One and all.” 

Draco started, “I’m sorry, _ pardon_? _ Obsessed?_” 

“Whole school’s noticed, mate.” She leered. Unmistakably. “The Ravenclaws were actively holding bets on how often they’d see him lurking around the seventh floor in a day.” 

The seventh floor. _ The Room of Requirement_. But this was _ before _ Harry had found out he was a Dragon. He’d _ known _ Draco was spending time in the Room of Requirement. Draco had been well aware Harry had been following him around like a Niffler chasing a belt-buckle, but he hadn’t realized just how much… 

“Draco, you’ve gone bright red.” Astoria commented very unhelpfully. 

He scowled at her. She actually recoiled from the force of it. 

“Harr - _ Potter _isn’t obsessed with me.” Draco snapped, making every effort to hold her gaze because he knew the second he looked away she’d be onto him. “He’s left me alone ever since he caught me.” 

Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “He has?”

Draco gave a stiff nod. “Bit anticlimactic, actually. I think I underwhelmed him.” 

“You? underwhelming…?” She drawled, her laser eyes drilling into him a little too intensely for him to believe she’d bought his excuse, “shocker.” 

Draco released the breath he’d been holding. “Shocker.” He echoed, his head crammed full of new thoughts and new worries, and for once they had nothing to do with the war. 

*

“Ouch!” Harry drew his hand back from his cluttered draw, wincing. Paper cut. Fantastic. 

“Mate, what are you doing?” Seamus called from the other side of the room, pushing Dean out of the way to see what Harry was making a fuss about. Since he’d caught them together and so far proven that he hadn’t outed them to the rest of the year, the pair had become a lot more relaxed around him in regards to their relationship. Harry didn’t mind too much. They didn’t act all that differently than they had before, really. Still a lot of physical contact. A lot of grinning at one another. A lot of secret, shared glances that told of a joke or a mystery only the pair of them were in on. 

But Harry couldn’t give a single shit about his roommates right now. He rummaged through to the bottom of the draw, ignoring the tiny droplet of blood forming at the tip of his finger. 

“Oh, Christ.” He growled, feeling his face heat up with frustration. He rounded on Seamus, who was now leaning over his shoulder. Into his space. Seamus backed up, holding his hands in the air as though Harry were threatening him.

“Woah, woah, hold your Hippogriffs, sunshine. What’s got your knickers in a twist?” 

“You wouldn’t know how to _ un _vanish something, would you?” 

Seamus scratched his chin, glancing over at Dean who was reclining on his bed. 

“Unvanish?” He repeated, “Dean? Do you know how to unvanish stuff?”

“Never heard of that being done before.” Dean said through a yawn. “What’s it for?”

Harry sighed hard. “I’m looking for some old notes, is all.”

“How old?” 

He pulled a face. “Three years?” 

Seamus laughed. “Holy Mary Mother of God, you must be in tight shit if you’re looking for revision from third year.”

It was revision, sort of. Revision of a very special kind. Harry hadn’t laid eyes on his avid notes from Lupin’s patronus lessons for years. He didn’t think he’d ever need them again. Why would he? He’d mastered the skill. He didn’t think he’d have to teach anyone else. He mentally kicked his past self for… well, doing whatever he’d done with them. 

Harry kicked his draw shut and crouched to the last one, hoping against all hope they’d be amongst the disorderly piles of old parchment.

He rifled through each page, cursing as he caught his fresh cut again and again until - 

“Ah. _ Yes_.”

The notes were almost entirely unreadable. Harry’s thirteen year old self had even worse handwriting then than he did now, which was saying something. But the tiny diagrams and scrawled ‘notes-to-self’ comments in the margins had him smiling, tugging on a corner of his memories more innocent and naive than he’d allowed himself to be in a long time. Something in Harry pined after those times. Sure, his falsely-accused godfather had been running around the castle as a huge black dog that resembled the omen of death and his phobia of Dementors had blossomed into full blown panic attacks, but lessons with Lupin had been his favourite by far. He couldn’t imagine having a better teacher again. Thirteen year old Harry had so much to come. So many hardships and so much to learn. But a part of Harry wished he could unlearn it all; go back to a time when they weren’t on the cusp of all out war. 

Back when he’d hated Draco Malfoy with a burning passion.

No.

Harry didn’t miss that… at least, he didn’t think so. 

His stomach churned again as he clutched onto the notes, thinking of the lesson coming up in a few hours. He told himself to stop being so ridiculous. Because he’d spent every night for weeks in the same room as Draco. He’d seen him as a Dragon, spoken to him like a friend, almost. He knew Draco’s darkest secret, so why was he nervous again? It was just like last night. A tension within him that bore some significance he couldn’t decipher. Something had changed between them the other night when he’d apologised for the way he’d treated Draco. A tangible nick in the air, like… like Harry was more aware when Draco glanced his way. Like every silver glance was supposed to _ mean _something, and it was the meaning of it that knocked him for six. Was it a pact? A truce? An agreement? Weren’t they past all that? 

Fuck, he couldn’t work it out. He was surely going mad. 

Harry looked out for Draco at dinner, every other moment finding himself staring at the Slytherin table and at the vacuous space Draco usually occupied but now… wasn’t. Where was he? What if he’d forgotten? Or decided to transform tonight? Harry had left the map in his room. The last he’d checked, Draco was in the library. 

He just wanted to _ check _. Maybe he could slip away and-

“Harry, please eat something.” Hermione urged, pushing Harry’s plate towards him. The delicious piles of roast potato and lamb lay there, smothered in butter. Untouched. Harry shook his head, the idea of eating making him feel slightly sick. 

“Not hungry.” 

“What’s got you so worked up?” 

“My lesson with”- he looked around and lowered his voice. “You know…” 

At this, Ron’s head whipped around to face him from beside him. 

“You’re not actually doing this. Tell me you’re not.”

Hermione shot Ron a familiar warning glare from across Harry. “It’s not for Malfoy’s benefit. It’s for the _ war_, Ron.” Her mouth worked itself into a smile. “Besides, Harry’s a great teacher. But we already know that.” 

Harry frowned, his mind going blank. “What?” 

Ron snorted into his pumpkin juice. Hermione was watching him like he should be in a straight jacket. 

“Um. You know, Harry… how you teach at DA meetings?” 

_ Godric, _he was making a tit of himself. “Right… yeah.” 

He speared a potato. Shoved it in his mouth. Tasted like cardboard. 

“Don’t be nervous.” Ron jibed, “Malfoy’s a little snot, if he does something shitty just hex him.” 

“Thanks, Ron.” Said Harry dryly. 

Hermione shook her head. “It’ll be fine. You were right. This might actually help. Actually, I think it definitely will.” She said warmly. 

“Thanks, Hermione.”

His food tasted marginally better after that.

Marginally. 

Harry had an hour to kill before meeting Draco on the seventh floor, so he scoured the map. 

His breathing quickened when he saw where the other boy was. 

The forest.

His spidery name-tag was unmoving and still, but Harry had a feeling - an inclination - he must have transformed. 

It wouldn’t be right to track him down. It wouldn’t be fair. Harry wasn’t supposed to know where Draco was all the time. The map was… well, it was an invasion of his privacy. That had never bothered Harry before. Because last time - _ last time - _he’d been doing it to track a Death Eater.

Now it just felt weird. 

He forced himself to put the map in his draw. He buried it under his socks so it couldn’t stare at him through the wood. He still felt the temptation as the minutes passed, but he resisted, and opted to leave early. 

If Draco didn’t turn up, so what? He’d just leave and yell at him tomorrow. It would be that simple. But - and he couldn’t lie to himself about this - he was really, really curious to know what Draco’s patronus would be. He’d kept himself up last night guessing. A snake? No. Too obvious. A fox? Perhaps. But there was something too doggish about foxes, and nothing doggish about Draco. Some kind of feline, perhaps. A cat? Too relaxed. A panther? A lynx? A jaguar? No. Nothing fit. Harry drove himself round the twist trying to think of possible things his patronus could be. But nothing felt… _ right_. But he knew it would when he saw it. And the idea excited him. 

Harry arrived at the Room of Requirement fifteen minutes early before they were due to start. He didn’t expect Draco to be there but - _ he pushed open the massive door, ready to see a blond-headed white-shirted figure crouched over a book _\- he slumped. Draco wasn’t there. 

Disappointment was a strange thing to be feeling when it came to Draco _ not _being there. It used to be that Harry would walk into a room, see Draco, and disappointment would be the first feeling to assault him, and usually resulted in him being distracted for the rest of the lesson. 

And there was still a distraction about him. Simply an unnameable one. 

Despite the high ceilings and corridors upon corridors tunneling through the piles before him, the room felt oppressive and dank. March was brighter than February, but the sun had already set, and raindrop beads clung to the tall, black windows looming over him. Harry sighed into the silence, hearing his own breath answer him in the cavernous space. 

*

Draco was _ alive. _Every sinew in his body was strung tight, like the skin of a drum. His muscles burned with each step he took, but in the most incredible way. He dressed quickly in the forest, relishing each puff of his breath misting out in front of his face. The _ hotness _of it. The heat of the skin covering his body, which minutes before had been scales. 

The Curse hadn’t even been bothering him. He’d been a Dragon for most of the week, after all. But something had compelled him to come here and just… change. Just for a while. And it worked. 

The sleepless mess of nerves he’d been this morning had been unwound after just a few minutes of transforming. He didn’t go crazy. Just flew around a bit under the safety of the canopy. Startled a few creatures. Burnt a couple of bushes. 

It was okay.

_ He _was okay. 

And now he was ready for his lesson with Harry. 

_ ‘Lesson.’ _

He doubted very much Harry would miraculously transform into an element of boundless wisdom before his eyes. This was probably going to be a disaster. For _ both _of them. But they had to try. 

Draco still hadn’t decided whether he was going to pursue the question that had been rattling around his brain all day since his conversation with Astoria. He wasn’t sure he wanted to reveal the true extent of Harry’s stalking in the first term. He wanted to _ know_. Badly. But he didn’t know how good that would be for his psyche. 

Even so, as Draco bounded up the stairs to the seventh floor, pushing past the body of students going to their dorms for the night and thriving off the fire that still flickered in his chest, his stomach quelled with uncertainty. He hadn’t been alone with Harry since sitting with him in the clearing after his last transformation. And that had been awkward to say the least. Predominantly because the Gryffindor had just chastened himself at Draco’s feet and Draco had proceeded to slump, completely naked, in his arms. 

A shiver of embarrassment ran along Draco’s spine. The seventh floor loomed, the prospect of the next few hours stretching out before him in a desert of ambiguous possibility. It scared him. But also… 

Excited him?  
Draco couldn’t discern the feeling from the deep pit of anxiety in his stomach. He hadn’t felt _ excited _about anything for a long time. 

The Room of Requirement was quiet, but not empty. 

He’d expected to be the first to arrive. He was almost five minutes early, after all. But, no. There was Harry, bundled up in a moth eaten burgundy armchair over a pile of wrinkled parchment in his lap. He looked up, startled at the sound of the door closing behind Draco.

“Hello.” He smiled. 

Draco’s tongue tied itself in a knot and he couldn’t feel his feet for a second. There wasn’t enough air to breathe. His head was spinning. Perhaps his quick flying session hadn’t been such a good idea. 

“Hi.” 

Draco blinked. They were staring at one another. Harry shuffled in the chair uncomfortably and Draco averted his gaze. 

“I, err… brought some stuff.” 

“Useful stuff, I hope.” 

“Yeah… well…” Harry unfolded his knees and the parchment went flying. He swore, gathering up the scraps of paper. Draco rolled his eyes, smiling, and strode over to help him.

“Honestly, Potter, you’d drop your head if it wasn’t attached to your neck.”

Harry gave him a withering look, but it was only surface level. There was a smile behind his green eyes.

“Still Potter, am I?” 

_ Oh_. In Draco’s head, he wasn’t. He was always Harry now. 

“It comes with the sarcasm.” 

“Ah.” Harry shook his head. “The sarcasm, of course.” 

What was that supposed to mean? Sometimes Draco couldn’t read his tone at all. He chose not to answer.

Harry’s scrawling pieces of parchment amassed, they both stood up, face to face. 

“So,” Said Harry, his throat working visibly. “Patronuses.” 

“Patronuses.” Draco repeated, lifting a brow and trying to ignore the faint flush on Harry’s cheekbones. 

The other boy frowned slightly. “Draco, did you… did you just transform?” 

Draco gaped, taken aback. “How did you”-?

Harry released a breath. “I knew it.” 

“How? Am I really that obvious?” He panicked. If there was some tangible quality about him that could give him away, he’d have to make his transformations less frequent. He’d have to -

Harry laughed, as though the world wouldn’t crumble apart if anyone else found out about Draco’s secret.

“No. It isn’t. It’s just…” He hesitated, licking his lips. Draco tried not to watch him do it. “Something about your skin afterwards. And your eyes. I dunno.” Harry’s face turned redder. Draco didn’t blame him. It did sound a bit… strange. 

He waited, to see if Harry had anything to add. But he didn’t. He gave a little helpless shrug into the silence. 

“So you don’t think anyone would be able to tell?” Draco’s panic hadn’t left him yet.

“I…” Harry began.

“Potter, seriously.” Draco pushed, “I need to know if there are signs. If I’m clockable. If it’s apparent that I’m - that _ something _is different”-

-“Godric, calm down.” Harry laughed again, his smile fading this time. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just something I realized now because I’ve seen how you are after transforming before. No one else would know.”

Draco exhaled, sinking into the springy and surprisingly soft armchair Harry had abandoned. He closed his eyes and focused on his breath. On his frantic, fragile heart thudding away at his ribcage. 

“I’m sorry.” Harry said quietly. “I should have thought.” 

Draco waved him off, rubbing his temples. Merlin, the paranoia of this was ridiculous. 

“Don’t apologize. It isn’t your fault.” 

Draco opened his eyes. Harry was staring down at him with caution. 

“So… you’re not angry with me?” The Gryffindor asked with a tint of awe. 

Draco scoffed. “Why would I be?” 

“You usually are.” A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. It was a rare kind of smile. Mischievous and playful. One Draco would quite like to see more of on Harry. It suited him more than he’d have anticipated. 

Draco answered him with another eye roll. “Yes, alright. So, what is it about my skin and my eyes after transforming that means you can tell?” He forced himself not to break eye contact after uttering the question. It was okay if Harry thought he was half-joking. 

Harry gave another one-shouldered shrug. “There’s a… a heat.” 

“A heat?” 

“Yeah… and you have more energy. There’s this kind of edge in your eyes. Yeah. You look a bit edgy.” 

“Edgy.” 

“Yeah.” 

There was a pause. Draco hauled himself off the armchair. 

“You articulate yourself with incredible grace, Potter. Now teach me how to make a bloody Patronus.” 

* * *

_ No books_, was Harry’s first rule. Which, Draco was reluctant to explain, he’d already broken. He grit his teeth.

“Why on _ earth _ shouldn’t I read a book about this?”

Harry sighed, folding his arms in a way that reminded Draco very much of a teacher. Maybe the role wouldn’t fit him too poorly after all. 

“It’s distracting.” Said Harry, shedding no light on his reasons at all. “You should rely entirely on feeling.”

Draco stared at him. “When has that ever worked for anyone?” 

“It worked for me.” Harry argued.

Draco twirled his wand in his fingers. “Yes, but I think the entire school would agree you’re an exception to that rule. To _ most _rules, apparently.” 

Harry’s expression turned stern at this. “I don’t think so.”

Draco had to laugh. “Okay, then explain why you were awarded fifty points - _ fifty fucking points _ \- in _ first _year for breaking every single rule.”

“I stopped Voldemort from becoming immortal!” 

Draco winced at the casual use of his name. “No offence but that didn’t last long, did it?”

“No offence but you ran off crying and screaming in the Forbidden Forest, remember?” 

_ Damn_. A low blow, especially for him. 

“I was eleven!” 

“So was I!”

“And you’d already survived the killing curse, whereas I was just a - a normal child!” 

Harry snorted. Violently. “Normal, my arse.”

Draco folded his arms. They were mirroring each other now, standing a metre apart like they were about to duel. Draco wouldn’t mind so much if they did. He was full of energy tonight, and it had to go somewhere. 

He scowled at Harry. “I wasn’t a Dragon back then. Or I- I didn’t know I was, anyway.”

“Not what I meant.” Harry replied easily. 

Challenge flavoured the air around them. Draco wasn’t sure how either of them would win this argument, but he’d bloody well try. 

“I was normal.” He insisted.

“And I was Gilderoy Lockhart’s biggest fan. Come on, Draco.” 

Why did he have to use his first name when he was least expecting it? It had the opposite effect Harry intended. Instead of riling him up, it made him feel lighter inside. Or maybe that _ was _ the effect Harry had intended. Draco scowled harder. Harry grinned. _ For fuck’s sake. _

“Normal for the wizarding world. You were practically a muggle, how would you know?” 

“Because I knew how people talked about you and your family. Because I knew a posh brat when I saw one. Because you reminded me of my cousin and he, however much my aunt and uncle would like to pretend, was not normal.” 

“How?” Draco asked, genuinely curious. He hadn’t been aware Harry had a cousin. Actually, he didn’t know anything about the family Harry had grown up with. 

Harry’s steely features faltered, and the lightheartedness of this only half-serious argument became dense. Draco wished he could retract his statement.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not bothered about your cousin, Potter.” He tried. The statement landed flat. Harry’s eyes had become far away, his wand loose in his hand as he unfolded his arms and lowered his head. 

“Harry.” Draco tried, hesitant. 

Harry shook his head. “No. You’re not like Dudley. If I thought you were, it’s because I wanted to see it. It was easier, putting you two in the same category.” 

Echoes of Harry’s apology in the Forest rang in the midst between them. Draco swallowed, stepping closer. 

“No. You were right. I was a shit. Still am. Old habits die hard. I should know.” 

Harry lifted his chin. He searched Draco’s features with his fucking laser beam eyes, both impossible to look away from and impossible to hold onto. His face did something strange.

“Draco. Stop trying to comfort me.” 

Draco’s breath hitched in his throat. Harry’s face was close. When had he stepped this close? He couldn’t recall. He took a step back.

“I’m not.” Defensive. No. He didn’t want to sound defensive.

“You are. You do that, when you’re trying to be… I don’t know… _ nice _.” 

“Do what?” 

“Talk in short sentences. Usually you talk like you swallowed a thesaurus, but not when you’re trying to make me feel better.” 

Draco bit his lip to hold back a retort. Harry was right. How the fuck was he so unguarded? So unguarded that one of the least observant people on the planet was able to see right through him? 

He inhaled sharply, turning away from Harry. “You were getting morose. It was annoying. And I’m not _ nice, _Potter.” 

“No, I said you were trying to be.”

Against all instinct, Draco turned around and looked at him. 

He was smiling. 

Okay.

Good.

“You’re an arse.” 

*

The last thing Harry wanted to do was spill his childhood woes onto Draco of all people. He didn’t need to know about his cupboard. Or Dudley. Or Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Those nasty memories could stay exactly where they were. He could only imagine Draco’s disgust. For all he was trying, it was still there; the aristocratic glamour that glowed in a perpetual aura around his noble features. Harry’s upbringing would do nothing to penetrate it. It would only aggravate him. So he refrained. But it was still strange, watching Draco step into Harry’s space, the unmistakable wash of concern flooding his face as he said, _ “Harry” _ with so much caution that it was almost believable. Maybe Draco even believed it himself. But the truth would only piss him off, and Harry did _ not _need a pissed of Draco on his hands while simultaneously trying to conjure up his happiest memory. He should have thought of that before deliberately arguing with him. 

But it was fun. 

He’d sort of missed their inconsequential tiffs. It wasn’t as though they’d been arguing about anything really serious. It was the exact sort of shit they used to throw at each other in class all the time, only now it was with the edge of banter that only true friends could get away with. 

First, Harry sprawled his notes across the upside down sofa they used to revise on. Draco wrinkled his nose at them.

“Before you say anything about my handwriting”-

-“It’s piss poor.”-

-“_I was thirteen when I wrote these.” _

Draco didn’t manage to hide his shock before Harry saw it. “Merlin, you were young when you learnt how to…” He met Harry’s eyes. “I’m not complimenting you.” He snapped. “I’m just saying. It was bloody irresponsible for a Professor to be giving you such advanced lessons in third year, is all.”

Harry stifled a laugh. He’d really put Draco on edge before. He shouldn’t have accused him of trying to comfort him, but it had slipped out before he had time to think.

“Well, it happened. And if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be able to teach you now.” 

“You haven’t taught me anything yet.” 

“Shut up and I might get around to it before midnight.” 

Draco huffed, but remained silent. He knew how much he loved having the last word but today Harry wasn’t going to let him. 

“I know about the memory part.” Draco rushed, just as Harry opened his mouth to speak. 

Harry sat down on one of their stools, leaving Draco to stand, tapping his foot, across the sofa from him. 

“Okay. Tell me what you know. We’ll go from there.”

Draco ran his bottom lip along his top teeth, a nick between his brow as he thought hard. 

“I need a happy memory. The happiest. The serotonin from that thought is converted into energy which bypasses the core and”- 

“No, no, no, no, no.” Harry interrupted, standing. “You’re thinking about the theory. This is why I said no books.”

If steam could emit from Draco’s nostrils, Harry was sure he’d see it.

“I said the exact same to Hermione when she was learning. You’re both alike in that respect. You think too much.” 

“And let me guess,” Draco said through gritted teeth, “You’re so good at this because it requires no thinking at all?” 

Harry ignored the jab. “I’m good at this because I had a good teacher. And I immediately knew what memory I had to use. So that’s the first thing I want you to do. No magic. No theory. Just think of something happy.” 

Harry had never seen someone look so terrified of a happy memory before, but Draco did.

“Draco, there isn’t a _ right _ answer. Or a _ right _memory. Just let your mind wander. It could take a while. That’s okay.” 

Draco’s expression didn’t relax. The tightness in his jaw flexed in time with the heavy rise and fall of his chest. It was moments like this when Harry wished he could just reach out and… _ do _something. Hold his shoulders down. Smooth out the knots in his back. Anything. But - that would be completely unacceptable. And strange. And - why was he having these urges in the first place? He tried to imagine doing that to Ron, and the thought only made him inwardly snigger. So why didn’t it feel the same with Draco? Godric, he was tired. 

Draco nodded tightly, bringing Harry away from his thoughts.

“I think… I think I have something.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“...Yes.” 

Draco flexed his shoulders, the movement sticking in Harry’s head for a disturbing moment, before lifting his wand arm and directing it at the empty space above their heads. Harry didn’t miss how his hand shook. 

“You can close your eyes if you want to.” He offered, “I did the first time.” 

Draco didn’t shut his eyes immediately. The possibility hung suspended between them, before he finally let them flicker closed. He took a deep, shaky breath.

“Why is this so hard?” Harry heard him mutter. It sounded like it was to himself, so he didn’t say anything. 

Nothing happened for a painful thirty seconds. Then, Draco lowered his wand and rounded on Harry.

“I need you to leave.”

“Wha”-?

“Please. Go. Just. Sit outside.” 

Harry took a brief second to search Draco’s exposed forearms for scales. Nothing. His collarbone and neck were free of the tell-tale signs of a transformation, too. 

“Um. Okay. Call me back in when you need to.”

Draco shook his head. “No, time me. Don’t let me take more than half an hour.” 

Harry nodded, reluctant to leave him alone. He seemed on the edge of a panic attack or an anxiety attack or… something. He didn’t want to say the words ‘don’t hurt yourself’ so he hoped Draco would read them in his expression. 

Harry left the room. 

* * *

Harry had done a lot of painful waiting in his lifetime. Perhaps each summer before the start of term being among the most notable instances. But the half an hour that followed had to be up there. He paced outside the doors of the Room of Requirement for most of it, trying to resist opening them up and asserting himself as a ‘teacher.’ Because Harry wasn’t Draco’s teacher. He was his… friend? Unlikely accomplice? Babysitter? What they were and were not to each other - the labels were getting in the way. The meanings and implications of each one blurring in Harry’s head into an indiscernible mishmash of _ things_. But right now, he knew barging in there and insisting Draco do as he said would get them nowhere. Everyone’s mind worked differently. Everyone had a different technique when it came to learning learning. Harry had learned that the hard way when he’d first started the DA meetings. One method did not work for everyone, and this… well, this was obviously Draco’s. Harry had to respect that. 

Nevertheless, when minute twenty-nine was up, Harry counted each second until the thirtieth, before opening the doors and practically running back inside. 

He did not like what he saw. 

Draco sat, unmoving, in front of the cabinet. But not in his usual cross-legged straight-backed way. He was hunched into a tight ball, his knees drawn up to his chin and his head resting between them, both his hands curled into fists in his overgrown hair. His wand lay discarded at his side. 

“Draco?” Harry called. 

Despite his soft voice, Draco jumped, lifting his head with startled eyes. 

“Has it really been half an hour?” He asked, his voice cracking as though he’d been crying. Harry couldn’t tell whether the pink rims around his eyes were from exhaustion or tears. He fought hard to remain completely composed. 

“Yes. Are you alright?” 

“I don’t know what to do.” Draco said quickly. Whatever barriers he’d been trying to break down in the last thirty minutes, whatever process he’d been through inside his head; it had left him a mess. 

Harry approached slowly, holding out a hand to help Draco up. “You don’t have to do it.” He said, trying to sound reassuring as Draco clasped a clammy hand in his. 

Draco sniffed hard, pushing his hair back off his face and rolling up his sleeves properly. He glanced erratically around at their surroundings. 

“This was a waste of your time. I’m fucking useless at this. I can’t”-

“Draco, stop.” Said Harry, finally doing a fraction of what he’d wanted to all night and laying a palm on Draco’s shoulder. The action made him look at him, and Harry decided the rings around his eyes weren’t from crying, but rubbing them continuously if the raw patches surrounding them were anything to go by. 

“You’re fine. We’ve only just started.” 

Draco was already shaking his head. “I can’t even think of a memory. How fucking sad is that? I thought I had one but it just makes me upset, not happy, because - I can’t have that anymore. I can’t think of one thing that isn’t ruined or tainted by… by everything.”

Harry wanted to hug him. He nearly did. But he thought Draco would probably hate him for it. So he took a step back, and gave him some room to breathe. 

“I’m too distracted. I’m sorry.” Draco said at last, giving Harry a sideways glance as though he was worried he’d be in trouble. 

“It’s alright.” Harry said as casually as he could. 

Draco was frowning at a void in the distance like there was more he wanted to say. Like he wanted Harry to ask. 

“Why?” 

“I…” Suddenly, he looked scared again. He paced in a circle that should have been comical, but instead it was concerning. “I tried to…” He stopped, pushing his face into his hands. _ “Just fucking get it out…” _It occurred to Harry that Draco talked to himself a lot - a lot more than Harry ever had done - and it was one of the ways he got himself through moments like this. Finally, he took a long deep breath and gazed at Harry, dead in the eye. 

“I tried to write a letter. To Nymphadora Tonks.” His tone was stilted, his expression utterly blank, and if Harry didn’t know better he’d think Draco was trying to be sarcastic. But this was him using all of his willpower to say those words. Harry tried not to react the way he wanted to, however much his jaw threatened to slacken. 

“Oh.” The sound emerged. Useless. “That’s… good?” 

Rather than breaking down or shouting at Harry, as he fully anticipated, Draco broke into a momentary smile. 

“You look even more freaked out than I do.”

Harry closed his mouth. So much for controlling his reactions. “It’s just - I really didn’t think you were going to say that.” 

“Me neither.” Draco admitted, puffing out his cheeks in a long exhale. “Weird. But, yes. I’m trying to write this letter but I can’t finish it because I don’t know what to _ fucking _say and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“What do you _ want _ to say?” 

Draco flapped his arms. “Sorry? I suppose? That’s it. But I can’t - I don’t know how to”-

Harry shrugged. “Just say that.” 

“What, just one word? Sorry?” Draco contested, skepticism creeping back into his tone. 

“Yeah.” 

“But that’s pathetic.” 

If Harry had known the day Dumbledore had assigned him to be Draco’s study partner that he would come with so much emotional baggage, he would have re-thought his game plan. Dealing with arsehole Draco from the past was far less of a monumental task than trying to unpack all of this. Worst of all, he was worried he would accidentally say something that would only fuck Draco up _ more _ \- he was shit at this sort of thing. 

“Pathe- _ Godric,_ Draco. You’re overthinking it. Honestly? The best thing to do would be to tell her in person but obviously you can’t do that so just - a letter. Yeah. Good. Send it. It doesn’t have to be an essay. She’ll get it.” 

Draco stared at him, the vulnerability in his expression making Harry regret his harsh tone. 

“I nearly wiped her memory, Harry.” 

_ Harry. _

“But you didn’t. And you didn’t mean to. She’s a good person. She’ll forgive you if you come clean.” 

Draco gulped. It was audible. He nodded fervently. “Right. Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

_ “Yes,_ Potter, bloody-hell.” 

Harry struggled. “You’re doing the”-

“If you dare say ‘the right thing’ I will hex you so you permanently smell like mouldy cheddar.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

“I know. I learnt how to do it when I was twelve.” 

“Only you would do something so petty.” Harry smiled. Draco smiled back, somewhat reluctantly. 

“Tell me about the memory. The first one you had.” He prompted, testing Draco’s borders. He’d already pushed it quite fine. He’d have to be careful, or they’d fall out again. And as much as he loved arguing with Draco, he really _ really _didn’t want to fall out with him again. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“It won’t be.”

“No, it is.” Draco let out a small, uncharacteristic laugh, “my mother really likes gardening. I know.” He said at Harry’s expression, “Hard to imagine her getting her hands dirty, isn’t it? Well, she does... did. I would help her when I was little and - and one day we discovered this fucking _ nest _ of gnomes. There were hundreds of them. I don’t know how they got away with it for so long but it was this - this fucking _ colony._ I distinctly remember methodically flinging them into a ditch over the wall and as I grabbed one, another one bit it on the arse and they span through the air like these… these magnificent, majestic mingers.” 

Harry exploded with laughter. He couldn’t help himself. The mental image of the two gnomes hurtling through the air, one attached to the other by its naked hairy arse was too much - especially when he hadn’t been expecting it.

“Fuck, Draco.” He hauled in a breath, “Give me some warning next time.” 

The Slytherin watched him laughing with a faint smile, some of the tension dissipating. 

“Told you it was stupid.” His hand drifted to the pendant on his neck. “My mother laughed like that, too.”

Harry tried to imagine Narcissa properly laughing. It was difficult. Just as difficult as it had been for him to imagine Draco laughing before he’d actually seen it. Now, he mourned the loss of Draco’s smile when it wasn’t there. The realization of that sent his head spinning slightly. He dismissed the feeling. It wasn’t important now. He focused on the pendant at Draco’s neck.

“Did she give you that?” 

Draco nodded. “Yes.” 

“I noticed it the first time I caught you coming out of the forest.” He said, finding it easy to admit that now. “Is that a happy memory? Her giving you that?” 

Draco’s expression darkened and Harry wanted to slap himself. “No. It isn’t.” He hugged his arms around his chest. “I haven’t told you this yet…” 

Harry waited. He didn’t want to push. He didn’t need to.

“This pendant, it - it’s what keeps me... _ me _ when I transform. There are spells on it to keep me conscious.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Draco’s expression was pained. “I hurt my father the first time I transformed. But I don't remember it. I burnt him. _ Badly_. He’s hated me for it since.” 

The weight of this statement sank in, and Harry’s mouth went dry. He didn’t dare to move.

“My mother made me this pendant so I could stay human, at least in my head. Without it I - I lose myself. Completely.” 

Harry was at a loss for words. Draco glanced up at him, fear in his eyes - fear of being judged, and hated, just like his father had judged and hated him - and Harry knew he had to say something. 

“You don’t have to think of a happy memory.” He said at length, once more resisting the urge to reach out and _ touch _Draco. Because he looked like he needed it. Because Harry needed it. Because they probably both did, but it would be strange and he was scared. 

“Instead,” Harry began, unsure as to why the proposal made him so nervous, “why don’t we make one?”

  
  



	13. Expecto Patronum

Draco wasn’t sure he’d correctly heard the words that had come from Harry’s lips. He felt his hand drop from his pendant and his arms go limp as he said,

“Make one?” He felt he’d repeated a lot of what Harry had been saying in disbelief tonight. 

Harry nodded, an air of self-consciousness about him as he dropped his gaze from Draco’s. He rubbed the back of his messy hair with a short laugh.

“I dunno. It’s just a thought. Might be easier to go off if you have something fresh on your mind. I’m not suggesting we’d be able to do anything _ worthy _of a real happy memory but y’know, I thought”-

-“Let’s do it.” Draco found himself saying in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his own. “I want to try.” 

Harry blinked, the faint blush on his features darkening. It was hot in here, wasn’t it? Draco wasn’t the only one feeling the insistent push of warm air against his skin. It was all around them, not _ in _them. If it was just Draco, Harry wouldn’t be flushed as well. Not to mention all this talk of feelings; it was exhausting. 

Harry coughed, clearing his throat as he began to swing his arms, awkwardly clasping his hands in front of him before letting them loose by his side again. Draco wanted to laugh. But everything was hanging in the balance. He had to take what Harry was offering him before it was snatched away - before he realized he didn’t deserve it.

“Maybe we could try getting out of this room.” Harry suggested. “I don’t think it’s good for you in here. I don’t feel like it’s good for either of us.” 

Draco remembered to breathe, tearing his eyes away from Harry and instead focusing on the clustered interior. 

“You’re right.” He agreed, “This place is starting to feel like purgatory.” 

But when it came to figuring out a new place to go, they drew up blank. The Forbidden Forest wouldn’t do - aside from the deadly creatures and haunted ambience, it was too closely associated with Draco’s transformations. He wouldn’t be able to focus. Their common rooms were out of order for obvious reasons. The library was too risky. Madam Pince would have their guts for garters. 

“The Kitchens!” Harry exclaimed, his entire face lighting up.

“Yes, let’s practice producing a patronus in a room full of food and nervous House Elves. Stellar plan, Potter.” 

“Ah… yeah…” 

Eventually, they decided to leave the room and see what happened from there. 

“Wait,” Draco said at the door, putting a hand on Harry’s elbow and withdrawing it immediately. The intimacy of the moment that had passed before still felt too raw. Draco’s hands had barely stopped shaking. “We can’t just... walk around together.” 

Harry’s face did a strange thing again. That couldn’t be _ disappointment, _could it? “Oh… right.”

“I mean” - Draco swallowed, his brain working lightening fast to try and find a way to word this that didn’t sound like he was outright rejecting the notion of being seen with Harry. His conversation with Astoria that morning crept, unbidden, in the way of his thoughts. 

_ You’ve always been weirdly obsessed with each other. _

_ Fuck off, Astoria,_ he thought hard. The taunting image of her smug little face vanished and he put a sentence together.

“I mean, people will be suspicious. It wouldn’t be natural, given they think we still want to kill each other.” 

He saw each cog turn in Harry’s head as he processed this. “Invisibility cloak.” He said, with no context whatsoever. 

“I’m assuming you want one of us to get under it.” 

“I was gonna say both, but… yeah. That makes more sense.” 

Draco registered this; the fact that Harry was legitimately proposing they _ both _slide under the cloak and wander around the castle together like a couple of first year hooligans. This wasn’t like the time outside the forest. They weren’t being chased by teachers. There was absolutely no need for them to cramp up close under the cloak, and Draco couldn’t understand why that had been Harry’s first idea. He would never be able to fathom how his brain worked. He couldn’t say he minded all too much, though. The constant surprises could be bloody entertaining, if not sometimes utterly infuriating. 

After tossing a sickle in a game of heads and tails, it was decided Harry would be getting under the cloak. He swore, and Draco cackled triumphantly, lowering his voice as they opened the doors to leave. 

Draco began walking along the dark, deserted corridor, suddenly uneasy. 

“You know, I actually think I would have preferred the cloak.” He murmured, glancing around for any sign of Harry but finding none. 

“You could have said so earlier.” Harry grumbled right by his left ear.

Draco jumped. “Bloody hell! Don’t do that.” 

“Sorry…” 

They walked in silence, Draco now trying to tune in to the faint pitter patter of footsteps along the stone flags just beside him. 

“You’re quiet. Didn’t think you had it in you to be so sneaky.” Draco commented after the silence began to make him feel like he was alone.

“I _ was _nearly sorted into Slytherin.” Harry reminded him from the same spot on Draco’s right.

Draco snorted. “Yeah. I’d forgotten about that.” He shook his head. “I still think you’re lying.” 

“I’m not. It’s not in my nature.”

“Liar.” 

They laughed, and it bothered Draco that he couldn’t see _ where _the laugh was coming from. Harry must have noticed, because he kept laughing after Draco had stopped.

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it, me being invisible?”

“I’m having flashbacks to third year, Potter, when you dragged me toward the Shrieking Shack and assaulted my friends in a particularly haunted spot. So, yes. It bothers me.” 

Harry began guffawing again, and Draco didn’t even mind that it was at his expense. 

“That was pretty funny.” 

“Nice to see your sense of humour hasn’t changed since you were, what, twelve?” 

“Oh, as if you haven’t”-

_ -“Shhhhh!” _

Draco flung out an arm, his hands finding the silky, invisible material in thin air, then a body beneath it, before he pushed them both back against a wall. 

“Ow…” Harry whispered.

Draco barely heard him. There were footsteps approaching from the corner ahead, about to turn - 

It was just a girl. A Hufflepuff Draco didn’t recognize. He leant against the wall, watching her pass.

She shot him a deathly stare. He equaled it, unflinching, until she looked away. Once her footsteps had faded, Draco let out a breath.

“Wow.” Harry exclaimed, his voice coming from the other side of Draco now. _ When had he moved? _“What was her problem?” 

Draco kicked off the wall, opting to meander in a circle rather than continue their search for somewhere to make happy memories. 

“I’m used to it.” He said automatically. “Everyone hates me, remember?” 

“Even your friends?”

Draco shrugged. ‘Friends’ felt like a very loose term for the people he shared a room with and had barely exchanged a word with in weeks. Except Gregory. He’d taken him up on his offer of Dreamless Sleep a few times, now. He’d go crazy without it. 

“I don’t understand how you can get used to everyone hating you.” Harry said unhelpfully from somewhere opposite Draco. He looked into the space where he thought Harry’s eyes might be, but ended up focusing on a brick. 

“I don’t understand how _ you _ can get used to the constant attention.” He fired back in an attempt to change the subject, “Those simpering idiots hanging off your arm every second of the day… it would fuck me off.” 

“I don’t have constant attention.” Harry said in a small voice.

“Don’t bullshit me, Potter.” Silence. “I’m going to need verbal confirmation that you’re listening because I can’t see you.”

Harry’s head emerged, floating, an expression of serious discontent plastered on his features but the image itself was so hysterical that Draco couldn’t keep a straight face. 

He doubled over, pushing his fist in his mouth to prevent a laugh from barking out of him. He tried to look at Harry and once again, failed.

“Fuckinghell, don’t laugh, Draco - I’m trying to have a conversation”-

Draco couldn’t hold it in. The giggles burst forth with more force than he could contend with and the angrier Harry’s expression got, the more forceful his laughter. 

“Merlin - I - _ wheeze - _ I can’t look at you! - _ wheeze - _”

And then they were both laughing until there were tears in their eyes and their stomachs hurt. It was worse because they were trying to stay quiet, so it was the kind of laughter that came out in rasps and wheezes. It only died down when Harry pulled the cloak back over himself, becoming invisible once again. 

“Bloody hell…” He panted, clutching the stitch in his side. “You looked like a… a levitating potato with glasses.” 

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Harry said back through another dying laugh. 

And this was it. This was the feeling Draco had been looking for; a lightness in his chest and a buzz in his veins that was akin to the tingles he felt after transforming, but coming from somewhere more pure - a place of genuine… joy. Was this joy? Was this that? He hated that he couldn’t tell, and the sensation began to die. Like a sheet weighted with stones that dulled his senses, the numbness began to creep back into his chest, reminding him of just how fucking fleeting these moments were. Of just how little time he really had to appreciate them.

“Where to now?” Harry asked, breathless and oblivious to the tightness in Draco’s chest.

Draco shrugged. “Somewhere where there isn’t a war going on? Somewhere I won’t be caught and killed for being a freak of nature?” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it was actually easier when he couldn’t see Harry anymore. Like he was just talking to a hallucinated voice rather than an actual person. But the silence that followed confirmed he was dead wrong.

“Sorry.” He sniggered with no humour, panic building inside his chest again, just like earlier. “That was dark. Dunno why I said that.”

The silence was saying more than Harry ever could, and it was making Draco’s brain run laps. So he started walking, needing the rush of air that came with his fast strides. 

He sensed rather than heard Harry run up behind him to keep up.

“Where are you going?” Asked the voice. 

“Dunno.” Draco replied honestly. “I just want to walk.” 

“Yeah, but you’ve also gotta talk to me, Draco.” Harry argued, ever the tenacious one. “Don’t just run off without”-

-“Give me a minute, Potter, for crying out loud.” Draco snapped, not really angry with Harry but angry with himself for being such a wet blanket. He wished more than ever to be alone. To be curled up in his cold bedroom at home under a thick quilt with a _ muffliato _cast all around him.

He felt Harry seething beside him. The effort it must have been taking Harry not to hex Draco on the spot - in all honesty, he wasn’t sure how he held it together. Draco wouldn’t be able to cope with someone like him if this was the other way around. He heard Astoria’s voice in his head again as he breached the outside, stepping into the grounds and allowing the chilly March air to surround him: 

_ “Stop being a whiny little bitch and own it.” _She would say something like that. For once, he agreed with her voice, however much of a figment of his own imagination it was. 

Draco halted just outside the Quidditch Pitch, stopping to haul in lungfuls of clean, damp air. The rain had stopped, leaving a shiny coat on the world that shimmered in the moonlight as the sky cleared of clouds. 

Harry appeared beside Draco, yanking the cloak off himself and bundling it into his bag. 

“There’s no one around.” He explained with a dark look at Draco, and he knew a confrontation was coming. Harry wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “We’re safe. Trust me.” 

_ Trust me._ He said it so easily. Draco wasn’t sure he could ever ask Harry to trust him. He knew what the answer would be. Oh, the privilege of a life lived as one of the good people. Draco would never have that. 

He looked away from Harry and across at the goal posts ahead of them. 

“Outside feels better.” He said. “More… open.” 

“Is that what you want?” Harry asked him cryptically. “To be more open?” 

“Don’t take me so literally, Potter.” Draco rebuffed, kicking the grass and turning away from him again to wander, directionless, beside the stands. 

“You were happy before.” Said Harry, staying exactly where he was, “What happened?”

Draco shrugged. “It got away from me.” 

“Why?”

“Because everything is shit!” Draco exploded, wringing his hands and gazing at the source of his antagonism. “Look around you, Potter. Look past those hideous glasses of yours for a fucking second and - and just look at everything falling to pieces!” 

Harry frowned. “Nothing is falling to pieces, Draco.” He said gently, and somehow the gentleness made Draco feel even worse. He wanted to be _ shouted _ at. He wanted the accusations and the blame and all of it. But Harry wasn’t giving it to him. He was refusing on purpose. 

“I am!” Draco burst out, “I am, Harry, because I don’t know what else to do. Everytime I think things might be okay, I remember what’s going on. I remember where I am and _ who _ I am and - and what I became and I just - _ fuck _ , I can’t keep pretending, alright?” He thrust his exposed, left arm out, the action feeling wrong in itself. “You see that? I let that happen. I _ let it._ No matter how you see it, I am a Death Eater now. I can’t escape. Ever. Unless I die. Do you understand?” 

Harry’s eyes did not wander down to the tattoo on Draco’s arm. They stayed fixed on his face, unwavering and piercing - it was actually painful, how piercing they were. 

“Say I’m wrong.” Draco challenged, grinding the words between his teeth. “Say I’m talking shit and I’ll shut up, but don’t lie to me.” 

*

No, Harry would not lie to Draco. But he couldn’t find the words to argue because he knew, he could _ see it now_, exactly why he thought that way. The hopelessness of the war was there, on the cusp of everyone’s mind, and Harry would have put himself at the top of that list before finding out Draco’s secret. But the stakes for him were high - higher than they ever were for Harry. What did Harry have to lose except his own life? He didn’t have a family to die for him - not unless he counted the Weasleys but they had children of their own to die for. He didn’t _ want _anyone to die for him, and they wouldn’t. If anything, Harry would be the one dying for them. 

“I get it,” He told Draco, mentally stepping over the barbed wire that was Draco’s fragile psyche - one wrong word could fuck everything up again. “I really, really get it Draco”-

-“How could you?” Draco argued, finally crumpling into anguish. He shoved his sleeves down, hiding the man-made blemish on his arm. “No one gets it, alright? I don’t want them to. I should just…” He trailed off, stomping the ground and shirking his hands through his hair again. A bad sign.

“Should just what?” Harry pressed, “Disappear?” 

Draco’s ice-cold eyes found him. They were accusatory but he wasn’t denying it. 

“Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to disappear, Draco?” 

The Slytherin made a helpless sound in the back of his throat. “But it’s”-

-“It isn’t different!” Harry interrupted before Draco could say the words, “I thought people were dying for me! That’s what you think, right? That people are gonna die because of you?”

Draco was looking everywhere except at Harry, his breaths misting out into swirls in fast puffs. 

“I spent most of this year blaming myself for Sirius’ death. Because I was tricked and he came looking for me. I thought that was _ my _ fault. But, no. It was Bellatrix’s fault. _ She’s _ the one who aimed the curse. _ She’s _the one who killed him. It’s taken me so long to realize but - that’s the truth. Would he still be alive if I hadn’t gone running off after him? I dunno. But it’s too late to change it, and he sure as hell wouldn’t want me kicking myself over it every single day. Which I have been and… I’m trying to stop.” 

The catharsis of finally saying it out loud, of finally admitting that he wasn’t the one responsible for Sirius’ death washed over Harry in an inexplicable wave of calm. Every part of him felt a little lighter, like every cell in his body had all at once breathed a sigh of relief. 

Draco stared at him. “You thought… he died because of you?” 

“Of course I did!” Harry exclaimed. “Because of my fucking hero-complex! I was so obsessed with saving him that I caused more trouble and I” - he made himself stop, taking a deep breath. “I realize… _ now _… that it wasn’t my fault. You see?” 

“Of course it wasn’t.” Draco spat, as though the very notion offended him. “Bellatrix is a psychotic cow, anyone would be lucky to get away from her alive.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. Exactly. And it’s the same for you.”

Draco frowned. 

“You can’t blame yourself for your parents keeping your secret. I don’t know about your father, but your mother… it’s obvious how much she loves you. She doesn’t hate you for it. I don’t think anything you did now could make her hate you, and she knows how powerful Voldemort is. It isn’t your fault that they’re in danger.” 

Draco straightened his back, and Harry had a flash of worry that he’d gone too far - that mentioning Narcissa was a line he shouldn’t have crossed - but the other boy’s face remained disturbingly blank. Harry didn’t realize why until he saw the tell-tale glisten of his eyes in the semi-dark. He was trying not to cry. 

“No, she doesn’t hate me. That’s what hurts.” 

Harry didn’t understand. 

“This is why you could never understand, Harry. And I envy you for it.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be stunned into silence. “What?” 

Draco was shaking his head. “Sometimes it feels like my mother is the only person left who cares about me, but even she” - he swallowed hard - “even she can’t fix this. She’s part of the problem _ because _ she cares. It would be easier if they both hated me. Then I could do whatever the fuck I needed to survive or I could just, you know, _ not _survive without having to worry about them.” 

Harry was starting to understand, but he really hoped he was getting it wrong. _ Fuck, _he wanted to be wrong so badly. 

“You can’t…” He began, lost for words as he stepped closer to Draco’s stiff form, “You can’t mean it’s _ weak _for you to feel love, do you?” 

And, just as Harry had feared, Draco averted his eyes to the ground, his jaw clenching and fists curling by his sides in a silent confirmation that he was right. He’d hit the nail on the head.

Draco became a wall after that. Trying to get any sort of response or an answer from him that wasn’t monosyllabic was like trying to get blood out of a stone. They didn’t part on a bad note, exactly, just… a sad one. 

Harry trudged back to Gryffindor tower with a heavy heart, realizing he’d pushed Draco too far. He’d already given him so much tonight, broken down so many walls only to put every single one back up again - only this time firmly clad with iron. 

It was the mention of love that had done it. Love. The Dark Lord’s greatest fear and apparently now Draco’s as well. Harry had craved the love of his dead parents his whole life. He couldn’t imagine any situation where he wished his mother didn’t love him - as much as he tried to put himself in Draco’s shoes, he just couldn’t imagine it. The pain in his heart lingered until he fell into an uneasy sleep that night, and dreamt of sinister shapes in the dark. 

* * *

Harry did not enjoy being prodded awake. Especially by Ron.

“Whad’ya want?” He murmured grumpily after his patchy sleep. 

“Owl. For you. Been tapping at the window for ages.” Ron replied, just as tetchy. 

Harry rubbed his eyes, utterly out of sorts and sat up. It wasn’t even light yet. It couldn’t have been later than - 

“...six in the morning… why’re people awake?” Neville was muttering from his bed. 

Harry got out of bed, shivering as his bare feet made contact with the cold stone and blearily opened the window. 

A robust screech owl awaited him, its lofty glower indicating its displeasure at being kept waiting. 

“Alright, alright,” Said Harry, untying the letter from its leg. “Keep your wig on. It is early, you know.” 

The owl made a point of turning its head away from him. Harry rolled his eyes, fetched one of Hedwig’s treats from his messy top drawer and tossed it at the owl who caught it mid air.

“Wait there.” Harry instructed it rather harshly, “I might need to reply.” 

He spent the next ten seconds cursing whoever had decided to send him a letter at six in the morning until he saw who it was from. It was short. Abrupt. And it drew Harry from the last dredges of sleep immediately. 

_ Sorry about last night. _

_ Are we still on for later? _

_ ~ D_

Harry blinked, gazing at the neat calligraphy in vague disbelief. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming. Nope. Definitely still awake. 

Harry sat there for a full minute, his mind blank, before scrabbling in his draw (the same draw he stored Hedwig’s treats in. He really needed to clean this thing out) and grabbed the first scrap of parchment and quill he could lay his hands on, covering his fingers in ink in the process. 

_ Don’t worry. All fine. Yes. Want to try again? _

And then, because he could: 

_ P.S Why are you up so early? Bloody owl woke us all up. _

_ ~ H _

The owl looked comically pissed off as Harry tied his letter to its leg, and it flapped away rather forcefully in the direction of the Owlery, blowing gusts in Harry’s face. He couldn’t help but grin.

Harry didn’t bother to close the window. He cast a warming charm on everyone else’s beds so they wouldn’t wake up again and shout at him, and waited patiently for Draco’s response on the edge of his bed, morning shivers jolting up and down his legs. There was no point in going back to sleep. He doubted he’d be able to now. 

There was something innately reassuring about Draco’s neat handwriting, the words so carefully written - like he really cared what Harry thought. 

The owl returned not five minutes later. Harry sprung off the bed and almost took the owl with him in his haste to retrieve the reply. 

“Sorry,” He told the owl, meaning it this time, “I know you’re just trying to do your job.”

The owl gave him a level, yellow-eyed stare full of disdain, like it was used to this sort of shit. 

_ Yes. Been trying not to read any books on it. Ridiculous rule if you ask me. _

_ PPS. You’re assuming I slept at all, Potter. _

_ ~ D _

  
  


Harry rolled his eyes. 

_ It’s a rule that works. One of the only ones I follow. _

_ PPPS. We have double Potions. You’ll be knackered. Skive? _

_ ~ H _

As Harry watched the owl disappear with his letter, he realized Draco might think he was proposing to skive off _ with _ him - not that Harry could afford to miss a double Potions session given both his lack of skill without the Half-Blood Prince’s book _ and _his failed attempts to get Slughorn to trust him again, but he’d do it in a heartbeat if Draco accepted. 

Ten minutes later, Harry got his reply. 

_ Your rules aren’t rules, they’re anti-rules. _

_ PPPPS. I’ll get through it. _

_ ~ D _

Harry chewed his lip, staring at those words. He wrote back:

_ They still work for me. _

_ PPPPPS. You don’t have to ‘get through it.’ Give yourself a break if you need. _

_ PPPPPPS. How many postscript ‘P’s can I write before this gets silly? _

_ ~ H _

Maybe adding a joke on the end would lift Draco’s sour morning mood a little. By the sounds of it, he needed it. 

As Harry sent off his response, he glanced opposite him to see a pair of narrowed brown eyes watching him from.

“Who’re you writing to, Harry?” Asked Ron from his bed. 

Harry felt his face heat up. “Um.” 

Ron watched him for a moment, the mechanics working in his mind almost audible in the room. 

“You know what? It’s too early for this.” His best friend conceded, rolling over and pulling his curtains shut. 

Harry exhaled gratefully. Thank god Ron hated mornings. He really, _ really _did not want this conversation with him of all people. Not now. Not yet. 

By the time Draco’s reply arrived, the sun had risen and shafts of golden light illuminated the motes swirling in the owl’s wake. 

_ Okay. _

_ P.S It’s already silly, Potter. See you later._

_~ D_

Harry held onto the letter for a long time. He wasn’t sure whether Draco was saying ‘Okay’ to his comment about the rules or about Harry’s suggestion that he should give himself a break. He hoped it was the latter. 

_ 'See you later.' _

Later couldn’t come quickly enough, as far as he was concerned. He wanted to make things right. He hadn’t handled last night’s conversation well at all, and he was nowhere near to helping Draco produce a corporeal patronus. There was a resistance there - more to it than just not being able to conjure a happy memory. It was almost as if Draco was _ scared _of discovering his patronus. Almost like… like… 

Harry had the distinct sensation of his stomach dropping to the floor. 

_ He had to talk to Hermione_. 

He found her at breakfast, but they were sitting as a three and the last thing Harry wanted to do was aggravate Ron into a discussion about why Draco was the worst person on earth, so he waited. And waited. And Hermione was giving him a very distinct side-eye.

“You okay?” She mouthed when no one was looking.

Harry nodded back, and replied quietly. “Got something to ask you. Later, though.” He added quickly as she began to scoot closer. 

As they approached the Potions room, Harry took a deep breath, ready to scan the space for a familiar blond head. 

But it was missing. Disappointment and relief mingled in a strange cocktail in his still bottomless stomach, and Hermione’s eyes were on him the whole time. 

“What is it?” She asked finally when they were seated next to each other and Slughorn began to drone on about Polyjuice Potion - a topic neither of them needed any insight on given that they’d successfully brewed a batch in their second year. 

Harry shot a glance at Ron, who gratefully wasn’t paying attention and instead seemed to be concentrating on hiding behind his cauldron from Lavender, whose daily gloweres toward him and Hermione hadn’t lessened yet. 

“First patronus lesson yesterday.” Harry said, barely above a whisper but careful not to mention names in case eavesdroppers were about. 

“How’d it go?” 

“...Could have been better.” Said Harry.

Hermione grimaced. “Tell me you didn’t fight again.”

“Not really,” Said Harry at length, scribbling down nonsense notes. “I think he’s afraid of making one.” 

Hermione frowned. “Why?” 

“Well, I sort of wanted to run it by you but… I think he might be worried that his patronus will be a”- Harry stopped, paranoia getting the better of him. He couldn’t say it here, so he elbowed her and indicated to his notes, where he quickly scrawled a quick sketch of a Dragon. It was more like a squiggle with wings, but she understood immediately, her eyes widening. 

“Oh.” She said, understanding. “Might be. I mean… it would make sense, wouldn’t it?” 

Harry wasn’t sure how to answer that. He’d heard of people having Dragon patronuses before - apparently Merlin’s patronus was a Dragon. But somehow he couldn’t imagine a version of Draco’s transformed self bursting free from his wand. 

He sighed. “Should I ask him?” 

Hermione shrugged, her eyes sad. “I don’t know, Harry. You know him better than any of us now.” 

“I know…” Harry sighed, feeling eyes on him in the room, but whenever he looked up to find who’s, they disappeared into the masses. “Weird, innit?” 

“Not really.” Said Hermione, taking ingredients out of her bag as the practical side of the lesson began. Harry didn’t care to unpick that statement. The knowing purse of her lips said it all. 

The rest of the day dragged. When Harry finally got time off in the late afternoon, the first thing he did was run up to his dorm to check the map, only to discover Draco was safely tucked away in his room. He slumped in relief. 

It looked like he was taking a break after all. He had a sudden urge to write him another letter - to send it down to the Slytherin dorms just as Draco had done for him. But one: Harry had no idea how owls reached the Slytherin rooms. They were under the lake. There were no windows. And two: Hedwig wasn’t here - she was resting in the Owlery. Besides, if Draco was sleeping or resting the last thing he’d want is a childish note from Harry asking if he was alright. He didn’t need Harry to check up on him every five seconds. 

So, conclusion number three, then, was that Harry would just have to wait until later. He only hoped tonight went better than the last. 

*

Draco hated napping. It disorientated him and all sense of time became lost. When he awoke to the green tinged gloom of the lake’s surface reflecting off his walls from the dim, glass window on one side of their dorm, it was with a bad taste in his mouth and a heavy ache in his limbs. 

He peeked at Blaise’s weather globe, barely lifting his groggy head an inch only to discover it was almost dinner time. 

_ Gods, _it was late. He’d wasted a whole day. His body protested as he forced himself out of bed, twinging for more sleep, but Draco couldn’t afford to give it. He wouldn’t sleep at all if he kept napping. Not that his sleep schedule was anything to be proud of, but he wanted a modecombe of control over it if nothing else. 

Draco cringed at his haunted expression in the bathroom mirror. The dark circles had become a permanent feature of his face and he was sure his hairline was receding from constant stress. Or the constant tugging at his roots. He was only sixteen, this definitely wasn’t fair. He snorted at his reflection. 

“Don’t talk to me about fair.” He told himself. 

“Malfoy?” Came Theo’s voice. 

Draco blinked in shock, spinning around on instinct. He’d thought he was alone. He marched back into the dorm. The beds were empty. 

“Nott?” He called, “Where the fuck are you?” 

A snicker answered him. Draco rounded the length of the room to find Theo slumped against his wardrobe, a bottle of Firewhiskey lolling in his grip. 

Draco grimaced. “It isn’t even past dinnertime.” 

Theo gave a messy shrug and hiccuped. “Don’t matter. Been drinking looooong before the eve-tide, my friend.” He frowned up at Draco, curly brown hair falling across his eyes in a greasy mop. “You’re not usually here this time o’ day.” 

He had a point. Usually Draco confined himself to the library or the seventh floor to agonize over problems he couldn’t solve. 

“Needed a nap.” It wasn’t a lie. For once. 

Theo offered him a lopsided smile. “R’member when we used to get absolutely wanker blasted together in fourth year? Me, you n’ Blaise?” 

Yes, Draco _ did _remember. Parts of it. “It wasn’t anything other good old fashioned English boys don’t get up to, Theo.”

“Got a new drinking buddy now,” Said Theo, saluting the air and bursting into mischievous giggles. 

“Good for you.” He eyed the bottle in Theo’s hand. “Hey, Nott, have you got any more of those?” 

Theo hiccuped. “Whole crate, mate. _ Heh… that rhymed… _ My dad’s been sending ‘em every fortnight since… since… What month is it?” 

“Could I pinch a few?” Asked Draco, unsure exactly what sort of plan was unfolding in his head, “I’ll pay you back.” 

Theo regarded him for a long second. “Sure. Whatever. Knock yourself out. It’s a school night though so have some Invigora... Invig... _Inbigora_tion Draught on you or summin’ kay?” He shook his head, tangled curls falling forward as he lurched toward the floor. “Not that I care… You don’t give one about _ us _anymore.” 

Draco had the feeling the last part of his statement was supposed to be a silent one, not one for him to hear. So he pretended he hadn’t heard it. 

“Thanks, Theo.” 

Draco stuffed four bottles into his bag before running to dinner. Distinct clinks rattled from inside it as he vaulted the stairs, two by two. 

Yep. He was losing it. 

But that was sort of the idea. 

During his sleepless night, Draco had wrestled with himself in his head about this stupid _ block _ on his ‘happy memories’. He’d thought about everything Harry had told him and replayed the evening’s events in his head time and time again until every argument and conversation blurred into one, making no sense. But most of all there was still that _ guilt_, a miasma of shame that followed him around relentlessly. He hadn’t been drunk in a long time. Hadn’t dared. Losing control was usually something that terrified the wits off him, but right now… maybe he needed it. Besides, if nothing else it would definitely help him sleep.

He’d written the letter to Harry in a moment of panic; ran up to the owlery and sent it off with shaking hands and chattering teeth at the first light of day, not even bothering to warm himself up. He’d been expecting Harry to tell him their lessons were over - that Draco was a lost cause and he was too broken to produce a corporeal patronus. But then his stupid reply turned up and Draco just felt like an idiot for worrying so much. 

Harry’s letters were stuffed into his pocket, crumpled and scrawled in the worst handwriting he’d ever seen but inexplicably... comforting. 

Draco took up his usual spot at the Slytherin table, keeping his head down as he strode to his seat. His bag was bulging in a way that would surely be noticeable if anyone cared to look. He was tempted to cast an undetectable extension charm, but it seemed pointless when the most he got these days was glances of contempt and the odd tutt of disapproval from some up-their-own-arse Ravenclaw. No one was looking at his bloody bag. He felt like a thirteen year old, sneaking alcohol around like this. Calling Harry silly this morning after stuffing his bag full of filched Firewhiskey felt rather redundant now. Filched Firewhiskey from _ Theo, _no less. 

Draco looked up instinctively, feeling like he was being watched and, unsurprisingly, meeting Harry’s eyes from across the hall. Draco’s head was still swimming from his nap. He blinked twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He wasn’t.

_ You alright? _Harry mouthed. 

Draco nodded back, the small smile accompanying it completely unintentional. But when Harry smiled back, it was worth it. 

Draco mentally shook himself and made himself focus on the food that had appeared in front of him. He didn’t like where his thoughts were heading. Not one bit. So he dismissed them. He put them away into the utmost corner of his mind where even the shadows didn’t quite penetrate - the corner Draco rarely acknowledged, and when he did, it was only ever in his dreams. 

But even as he pushed his food around with his plate with his fork, the long neglected corner of his mind he was trying _ very _hard not to think about began nagging him. And it wouldn’t stop until he was so distracted that he abandoned his dinner and headed straight to the Room of Requirement, not daring to see whether Harry was still sitting at his own table, however much he wanted to.

The Room of Requirement was empty, and it lent him no comfort or relief from his torturous thoughts. It was too familiar. Too hollow and too full all at once. The Cabinet stared at him and - _ there was the guilt again _ \- shedding away at the lining of his Slytherin willpower. But it wasn’t as if he wasn’t working on fixing the Cabinet at all. Of _ course _ he was. There was the patronus theory, for starters… but that too had begun to feel like a lie; no more than another excuse to spend time with Harry. It didn’t feel like any of this was about the Cabinet anymore, or deceiving the Dark Lord. There was that, too, but most of the time Draco’s thoughts were more preoccupied with things like: _ I wonder what kind of mood Harry will be in today, _ or _ I wonder if Harry tells his friends everything we talk about _ and _ I wonder if Harry is thinking about me right now, too _ \- all of which, Draco realized, were very dangerous thoughts be having indeed. Thoughts which belonged in the locked away corner of his mind but had begun to seep into his conscious, uninvited and unwelcome. 

It was like he was standing, frozen in time, on the crest of a great, black wave that was about to break and if he so much as wiggled his toe, time would start again and he’d go tumbling down, down, down into an irretrievable abyss. As the thought struck him, Draco was overpowered by an urge to talk to his mother. He hadn’t spoken to her in a while. It was dangerous, what with the house currently being occupied by the very people they were double crossing, but _ he had to_. 

With fumbling fingers, Draco rooted around in his bag, past the slippery brown bottles of Firewhiskey, until he had a firm grip on the silver round mirror engraved with his mother’s initials. 

With a shaking exhale, he pulled it free and held it in front of his face. Speaking as firmly as he could he said, “Narcissa Malfoy.” 

It took longer than last time for her to answer. Draco waited, biting his lip in anticipation, until his mother’s face appeared in the mirror. 

And he had to stop himself from gasping. 

“Mother…” He breathed, swallowing hard, “What happened to you?” 

Aside from her deathly pallor and sunken eyes, a long, freshly healed cut stood stark against her white skin, jaggedly following the curve of her narrow jaw. 

But rather than avert her eyes, Narcissa offered her son a tentative smile. 

“Don’t worry, my love. I’m alright. Our guests have a tendency to get a little rowdy at times, and I happened to get myself in the middle of one of their skirmishes this morning. Nothing a dash of dittany can’t fix.” 

The brightness in her tone did not reach her eyes. The background behind her was dark, and Draco could just about make out a thin slit of the orange sunset between some closed curtains.

“Who hurt you?” He demanded, “I’ll fucking kill them, I swear”-

She hushed him. “Draco… don’t fret. It was an accident.” 

A flood of heat drowned out every other emotion he’d had swirling in him before calling on her. 

“How many of these ‘accidents’ have there been, mother? Do they always treat you like this?” 

_ Now _her eyes gave a momentary flick downward, telling him all he needed to know. 

“You have to get out of there. There has to be another way”-

-“I am _ fine _.” She insisted in the same voice she’d used the last time he’d seen her in person. When she’d told him his father was back and that no one would find out Draco’s secret. When she’d reassured him, years ago, that he wasn’t a monster. That she still loved him all the same and she’d never let anything bad happen to him. 

Draco swallowed back the lump in his throat. 

“For now, this is our lot.” She said heavily, gazing at him levelly. “But I want you to tell me about you. Are you alright? Is everything going to plan?” 

Draco gave a stiff nod. “Everything is… okay. I think. Or it will be. I’m trying to find ways to fix the Cabinet, but… it’s hard, mother.” He hated how _ young _he sounded. So helpless. Pitiful, almost. 

But she wasn’t looking at him like he was a lost cause. She was smiling, as if this piece of information was the answer to all of their problems. 

She glanced over her shoulder briefly, and lowered her voice. 

“You have until June. This, I know for certain.” 

Draco felt his heart speed up in panic. “June? Is that when…?” 

“The date is yet to be set, but they are planning an attack already. Severus may try to feed Dumbledore false information but I will tell you the real date when I hear it from the Dark Lord’s mouth himself. Do you understand? We will be prepared, Draco. All they’ll want from you is an entry to the Cabinet and then”-

-“But they’ll still want me to - to kill”- He faltered, unable to deliver the rest of the sentence. 

Narcissa shook her head. “No. I have that covered.” 

_ The Unbreakable Vow. _Draco had almost forgotten, amidst everything else, that Snape had told him he’d taken the vow to protect him. And was that the cost? To kill Dumbledore in his place? Relief was the first emotion Draco experienced, and then dread because either way - as much as he loathed the man - the headmaster would have to die for this to work. 

The realization was incredibly sobering. Suddenly, Draco felt more in the present than he had for months. Because this was _ real_. This was _ really going to happen._ And he had less than three months to get his shit together and save his family. He stared at the cut on his mother’s jaw. 

“Mother”-

They were interrupted, because the doors were opening. Harry saw Draco looking into the mirror and stopped. 

“I have to go. Talk soon.” Draco said quickly, waiting for his mother’s answering, sad smile before her face disappeared to be replaced with his own sickly reflection. He shoved the mirror in his bag. 

“Who were you talking to?” Asked Harry, stepping into the room with a hint of trepidation that Draco noticed right away. And if that was mistrust on his face then the night was ruined before it had begun. 

“My mother.” Draco replied honestly, standing up to face Harry with challenge in his stance. _ I’m not lying. I’m not lying _, he thought hard, conveying it all onto his expression rather than saying it out loud. 

“That mirror…” Harry began, looking at his closed bag. 

“Yes. It’s a communication device,” Draco continued, ready to defend himself until the end of bloody time. “It’s”-

-“I know what it is.” Said Harry, still staring at his bag, a different look haunting his features - one Draco couldn’t interpret at all. Before he could ask, Harry plunged his hand inside his robes, rooting around in his inside pocket and pulling something free - a shard that glinted wickedly at its point. 

“Snap.” Said Harry, sounding far more morose than the word called for. 

It was a mirror. Well. Part of one. Draco frowned, lowering his defences inch by inch. 

“Is that”-?

“Same party trick, yeah.” Said Harry, turning the shard over and over in his hands. It looked ready to slice him open with one wrong touch. That couldn’t be safe. But Harry didn’t seem to care. “Sirius gave it to me so we could talk easier, but… now I just carry this around with me everywhere. Dunno why. I sort of hate it.” 

Draco’s breaths had turned shallow. He was still getting over the fact that Harry hadn’t provoked him at all about his chat with his mother. He hadn’t thought he was lying. That had to be a development in itself. Not to mention the opening to their night was far more intense than Draco had anticipated or planned for. 

“Ah.” He found himself saying numbly. 

“Must be a Black thing.” Harry said, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Draco was trying not to stare at it. “The mirrors.” He clarified when Draco said nothing at all. 

“Of course. Yes.”

Harry frowned, placing his broken shard back in his inside pocket. “I know you said you were okay at dinner, but… _ are _you?” 

“That’s a loaded question, Potter.” Draco replied, trying to inject some snark into his tone but failing quite miserably. “I’m - alright. I needed to talk to her. She wasn’t… I’m worried about her.” 

Following their conversation last night, this already felt like he was giving Harry far too much. He’d all but admitted his love for his mother was his weakness, and now here he was, saying he was _ worried _about her. He was hopeless. But even as he thought it, the weight of saying it out loud lifted somewhat, contained in the breath he spoke with. 

Harry nodded. As if he understood. “I would be too.” 

They stood like that for a moment, locked inside a pregnant pause, neither knowing what to say.

“Right,” Draco said finally on an outbreath, “You wanted to make a happy memory, so let’s get sloshed.” _ Because I don’t know how long either of us have left on this planet and Merlin help me I will make some happy fucking memories if it’s the last thing I do _ \- is what he wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, he lifted his bag and shook it slightly, the ensuing clinks having the exact effect on Harry he desired. The Gryffindor’s eyes widened as he put the pieces together in his head.

“You… want us to get...?” 

“Rat arsed. Trollied. Absolutely wanker blasted. _ Drunk_.” Draco lifted a brow, feigning confidence when really this felt like the most ludicrous idea since Hufflepuff was suggested as a house, “C’mon, Potter. I know you’re not all goody two-shoes in Gryffindor, we were all well aware of the experimentation the Weasleys had going on in there last year with their little sweet shop.”

Harry was already holding in a laugh. “I’m sorry, _ wanker blasted_?” 

“I improvised on that one.” Draco cringed, mentally punching Theo in the face for putting the phrase in his mind before dinner. He pulled a bottle out and non-verbally spelled the cap off. Either it was a fluke or he’d discovered a hidden talent but it shot off the end with a satisfying _ pop_, landing a few feet away. He handed it to Harry, who gave it an exploratory sniff. 

“Is this - ? _ No._” He sniffed again. “You want us to get drunk on _ Firewhiskey? _ What about… trying to cast a patronus?” 

Draco shrugged. “I’ve been giving it some thought. I don’t think I can unless I really… stop being me for a little while.” Harry opened his mouth to protest. “You know it’s true,” Said Draco, “I can’t unwind. Not naturally. Especially now. If this doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.” 

He watched Harry process this, his face going through a spectrum of consideration before landing, to Draco’s relief, on a grin. 

“Your funeral.” He said, tipping the neck of the bottle in a ‘cheers’ motion and throwing it back for a swig. He coughed violently, pulling a face. “Or mine.” 

“We should go somewhere else…” Draco suggested, feeling the Cabinet’s presence around him like a shroud. 

“Agreed.” Said Harry. 

_ But where? _Was the silent question suspended between them. Just like last night.

And then Harry’s eyes lit up like lasers. Draco was at once awed and terrified when they did that. He had no idea how a person’s eyes could be so green. They felt especially so when he compared them to his own, colourless grey ones. 

“Throw this on,” Said Harry, holding onto his Firewhiskey with one hand and rummaging madly in his bag with the other. He yanked out the invisibility cloak and tossed it at Draco. 

“Wh”-?

-“You’ll see!” Said Harry, running towards the door. Draco didn’t like surprises. “We’ve been using this room all wrong.”

Draco skipped the questions and threw the cloak over his shoulders, ducking underneath and making an effort to crouch so his feet didn’t show. Stooping behind Harry on their way out, he felt ridiculous, but he realized why the cloak was a good idea. The corridors were still milling with stray students, and Harry drew enough attention on his own. Draco could only begin to imagine the kind of gossip that would surface if the two of them were seen together, talking, not fighting… 

Would it be so bad? Draco thought, until the rational part of his brain reminded him that _ yes_, it would be, because he was trying to remain inconspicuous. At least until June. 

After that? Well. The future was anyone’s guess. 

Draco felt himself pale at the prospect and suddenly the clinks of Firewhiskey bottles in his bag sounded a lot more attractive. 

Harry had done a shoddy job of hiding his open bottle under his cloak as he leant against the blank wall with feigned nonchalance. Draco rolled his eyes until he remembered Harry couldn’t see him. 

So he watched him instead, taking advantage of his invisibility for the minute or two he was granted. And _ oh, _he hadn’t really allowed himself to look at Harry properly for a while. He hadn’t actively been paying attention, really. The situation usually called his attention elsewhere but… 

Harry didn’t look like the scruffy, weedy boy with oversized glasses that Draco had become accustomed to in his mental image of him. There had always been a certain infuriating charm to his wounded puppy look - Draco had always assumed he was doing it on purpose; the whole underfed-broken-glasses look. But now he’d noticeably filled out in ways that visibly transformed him from a boy into… well, a man. There was even a line of stubble along the shadow of his sharp, square jaw. Yes, his hair could do with a little grooming but the messiness gave him a sort of… edge. Even his glasses. His awful, years-old, oversized glasses that Draco teased him relentlessly for were sort of cool, framing his face in a way that - 

_ Merlin_. Draco had to shake himself. No. Focusing on Harry’s appearance was not a good idea. It was distracting and dangerous for his already turbulent thoughts. He relegated this information about his ex-enemy’s above-average build into the long neglected corner of his brain, willing it to stay there indefinitely. He also made a silent vow to stop concentrating so much on Harry’s eyes, however many shades of emerald they insisted on turning in different lights. It was an unnecessary observation, and one he was already devoting too much time to in his head just by acknowledging. 

“Um… Draco?” Harry whispered, glancing around nervously. And at this point, it was tempting to just walk off - cloak and all - leaving Harry and his irksome, noticeable eyes to seek him out all night because it was beginning to dawn on Draco that getting drunk alone with him was a _ very bad idea._

But he didn’t. Because he was a coward and Harry was right here, an open bottle of Firewhiskey already badly hidden beneath his robes.

“I’m still here.” 

“Corridor’s empty. The fourth years playing Exploding Snap just left.” Harry grinned, still scanning the air where Draco’s voice had come from. 

Draco nodded. 

Oh. Yeah. He was invisible.

He cleared his throat. “Okay. Now what?”

Harry faced the blank expanse of wall where the doors had yet to appear, surveying it as though it were a large canvas and he were a painter with every colour in the world to choose from. 

“Think of somewhere really comfy.” Said Harry at last. “Like, a good place to get um” - he grinned - “wanker blasted.” 

“Shut up, Potter.” Draco snapped with no bite at all. 

Somewhere comfy… A dash of colour and a faint memory stirred in Draco’s thoughts. 

Before he had time to think anymore, however, a small door had begun to materialize in the centre of the wall, painted a rich, currant shade. It was engraved with an intricate filigree, spreading out from its centre and reaching the ornate frame like a spider’s web. Harry’s eyes widened.

Draco had no idea what they were walking into as Harry reached out a hand and twisted the bronze doorknob, but it was the scent that caught him off guard first. A scent that twisted apart a knot of buried memories and all of a sudden had him reliving the vision of the Aegean sea, stretching out into a cerulean paradise ahead of a harbour dotted with tiny white fisherman’s ships and multicoloured sails, his mother’s hand cool and loose in his own. 

They were inside a… a bar? And if Draco hadn’t been struck immediately by the salty scent of the place - undercut with a musk of alluring, antique wines and old leather - he’d have thought he was dreaming. Because he’d been here before when he was fourteen years old with his mother. One summer, they’d been exploring Datça, a small port town on Turkey’s Southwestern Peninsula in search of an infamous Potions master known for his work on rare curses when they’d stopped at a bar just like this one. Velvet Chaise Longues with clawed mahogany feet and rugs made from double-knotted yarns in vibrant reds and yellows decorated every corner of the dark, woody room, and along one wall was a bar kitted out with every kind of alcohol imaginable. 

It was his first family holiday without his father. Ministry business had struck him as far more important than hunting down a cure for his disappointment of a son, so Draco and his mother had embarked alone. And he couldn’t have been happier for it. Narcissa had perched on the edge of a Chaise, exactly like the green one he was standing by now, and indulged every witch and wizard that walked through the door with stories about their life - the Malfoy life - until each and every one was utterly enraptured by her. Draco was sure some of the stories had been lies; they sounded far too adventurous to reflect their boring life of dinner parties and business meetings back home - but it didn’t matter. They were enthralling. 

He had sat amongst them, beside his mother, feeling like a prince and thinking: _ one day, I can be like her. If I could only break this Curse, I’ll be worthy of my family name and travel the world and enthrall strangers just like her. _

He swallowed hard, oblivious to Harry’s awe filled exclaims as he took in the scene around them. And were it not for the familiar music he’d only recently come to know playing softly in the background, he’d have thought he’d been turned back in time to that exact moment over two years ago. 

_ “Now while I love you, can’t love without you… Must love without you alone… Leave it alone, it’s all gone…” _

Harry began to laugh, and Draco was suddenly incredibly grateful for the invisibility cloak he’d failed to take off in his shock, because he could feel the way his features had twisted, betraying every emotion that lanced through him in that instant. 

“This is mad, Draco. Even your imagination is expensive.” 

Draco pulled off the cloak, plastering an air of what he could only hope was aloofness onto his face. 

“What is this?” Harry continued, darting to the well-stocked bar with glee, “Your mansion’s basement or something?” 

Draco smirked, the faint tug on his heart getting harder and harder to mask as the days went by and June loomed, marking the little time of freedom he had left before his life went to hell.

“Something like that.” 

*

Firewhiskey, Harry decided, was a stellar drink. 

They were doubled over in their amusement, stretched out opposite each other on opposing Chaise Longues upholstered in velvet, and he couldn’t even remember what it was they’d been laughing about. 

“Mad.” Said Harry, who had been saying that a lot this evening. 

“What is?” Draco asked, his voice lowered by the purr of alcohol buzzing through their veins. And it really was _ buzzing_. Like wildfire. 

“Firewhiskey.” Said Harry, because he was thinking about it. He gasped another swig back, coming to love the burn that scalded the back of his throat with every sip. 

Draco snorted, mirroring him and almost finishing his bottle. They’d only had one bottle each. _ One _. 

“And, like…” He was feeling brave. This was cool. He wasn’t going to say anything outrageous. “This.” 

“Define _ this_.” Draco yawned, reclining back, uncannily reminding Harry of the subject of a pre-raphaelite painting. He’d opted for the cherry-red Chaise to Harry’s surprise, leaving him with the jade coloured one. They were sitting on each other’s house colours. The thought entertained Harry more than it should have.

“_This._” Harry reiterated. Wasn’t it _ obvious? _“Us… hanging out.” 

Draco stilled at this, his face working through a number of expressions before landing on something between confusion and discontent. Uh oh. 

“Yeah, but we’re doing it for… educational purposes.” 

Harry barked a laugh. “Yeah. Firewhiskey is learning me a lot.” 

“_Teaching _you a lot.” Draco corrected with a tut and a dismissive flick of his wrist, his impossibly long legs draping over the back of the Chaise. 

“I was joking.” Harry laughed. “But you gotta admit, it is a bit weird. Even if you do still want to punch me in the face all the time.” 

“Not _ all _the time.” Said Draco with an unmistakable pout. “Just most of it.”

“Feeling’s mutual.” 

“Cheers to that.” 

And then they drank again, tipping the bottles back in an unspoken competition to beat the other. Draco won. Harry broke away, coughing. Draco didn’t even need to wipe his lips. 

“How are you so good at this?”

Harry was laughing. But Draco wasn’t. His expression had turned very serious. 

“I’m not.” He said, his voice quiet all of a sudden. 

“It… was sort of a compliment, Draco.” 

Draco shifted until he was sitting upright, holding the bottle between his knees. 

“I’ve only ever had it twice. Blaise, Theo and I used to get drunk in our dorms, but it was just Elderflower wine. Theo moved on to the harder stuff and the rest of us sort of... tried it but hated it. That was the first time I had Firewhiskey. Then the second time was…” 

He hesitated, a dim haunt glazing his clear eyes. 

“You don’t have to.” Said Harry, “This isn’t supposed to be about”-

-“I know.” Said Draco, “But I want to.” Before continuing, he reached into the bag he’d abandoned by his feet, and withdrew another bottle. This time he jammed the cap against the arm of the Chaise rather than opening it with his wand. 

He took a swig, barely flinching. 

“The second time was when I poisoned the mead I gave to Madam Rosmerta.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. Draco didn’t look at him, instead opting to stare intensely into the lip of the bottle. 

“It was like I was floating on a cloud. Like I wasn’t really… alive. Then, when I realized what I’d done, it was too late.” He placed the new bottle on the floor by his feet, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “Now this is the third time I’ve had it. I can hardly feel the burn now to be honest.” 

Harry nodded, trying not to let his discomfort show - because he didn’t want Draco to think it was _ because _ of _ him _… it was because of the things he’d had to do. And hearing them out loud, from his lips, only made his suffering all the more real. 

“Well, you’re pretty good at knocking ‘em back.” Harry said uselessly. 

Draco’s eyes glinted a little brighter. “As long as I’m better than you, I don’t care.” 

Harry shrugged. “I’m still better than you at Quidditch.” 

“Because you cheated in first year.” 

“I didn’t cheat, McGonagall put me on the team!” 

“You were still too young.” 

Harry sat up, the action sending his head spinning more than he’d have liked. 

“You got on the team in second year so I don’t know what _ you’re _complaining about.” 

Draco scoffed. “Yeah, then Weasley made himself vomit slugs. Priceless.” 

“Only because you called Hermione a”-

Harry stopped, cursing himself. Because if he continued that sentence, this wouldn’t be gentle chiding anymore. It would be serious. 

He had no idea how long the record had been playing in the background for, but if it wasn’t for the woman’s warbling voice, _ (“can’t love without you…”) _the mysterious bar would be deadly silent. 

Draco licked his lips slowly, his open collar revealing the fast rise and fall of his chest. 

He watched Harry carefully. “You going to finish that sentence?” 

Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t want to fight.” 

Draco laughed without humour. “Yeah. Okay.” 

“I’m serious!” Harry argued, leaning forward as Draco began to turn off. Turn away from him. Close down. _ No, no, no. _ “I don’t want to. I know you’re not that person anymore.” 

“Aren’t I?”

“Obviously not!” Harry flopped his arms, which felt far too heavy for his body right now. “You wouldn’t be sat here with me, would you? You wouldn’t be telling me all this… this _ stuff_. You wouldn’t be trying to stop Voldemort or… or… all that stuff.” He waited for Draco to berate his inarticulate speech, but he didn’t. He was frowning hard, picking at the label on the Firewhiskey bottle and shredding it into bits. “Draco, talk to me. Or don’t. We don’t have to talk about that. But I am not accusing you of… racism.”

Draco’s frown changed. “accusing me of _what?_” 

Harry blinked. “Y’know… racism…” 

Draco was shaking his head, bewildered, “Maybe I’m too drunk already but you’re speaking another language, Potter.” 

And this is when it finally struck Harry that Draco genuinely didn’t know what he was talking about. That he had no concept of racism, its history or the implications of it - because he’d never lived in that world. He hadn’t had to listen to Uncle Vernon prattling on about foreigners “coming in here and taking our jobs and our women” like Harry had. His prejudices were of a completely different nature, but they stemmed from the same sinister roots. And now it was up to Harry to tell him this. _ Somehow_. In his intoxicated state. Hmm. 

“It’s… a muggle thing.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course.” 

“No, _ listen._” Harry insisted, determined to get this right. Because it was important. “You… your friends, right? Some of them aren’t white.” 

Draco was blinking at him like he was speaking Chinese. Maybe Draco knew Chinese. Harry wouldn’t be surprised. 

“So?” Asked Draco. 

“Would you say any of them are below you because of it? Like Blaise? Or Astoria?” 

Draco was scowling at Harry like this was a trap. Which it sort of was. 

“Yes, they have dark skin, but I don’t see what this has to do with”-

-“Some muggles would think that makes them lesser. They’d say they’re inferior to people like you or me, because their skin is darker.”

Draco evidently had trouble processing this. 

“But that’s ludicrous. They can’t help”- He stopped mid-sentence, his mind finally catching up with the analogy Harry had set up. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Shot Harry a deathly glare. 

“Exactly. They can’t help it. Racism, muggle-hating. It’s all the same shit.” Said Harry. “But I’m _ not _ saying that you’re like them anymore. You used to be. Voldemort is.” _ Maybe your father is_, he nearly added, but chose not to. He was pushing Draco enough. 

“How do you know I’m not?” 

“Because I haven’t heard you say ‘Mudblood’ since third year.” 

Draco actively winced at the word, the same way he did every time Harry said ‘Voldemort.’ 

He shuffled uncomfortably. 

“You’re walking on thin fucking ice, Potter.” Draco warned, the fear in his eyes betraying the anger he was trying to convey.

“I’m not accusing you!” Harry half-laughed, “It’s just something I noticed. I only thought about it recently. I just… want to know what changed your mind.” 

Draco’s lips were a tight, hard line. His jaw was set and his stature was a fortress, every muscle clenched in protest. He heard Draco’s deep inhale before he finally spoke. 

“It was me. It was me that changed my mind. Being like this. I couldn’t accuse anyone of having dirty blood when I was… when I’m… I'm _not _saying I'm some muggle-loving Hufflepuff. Absolutely fucking not. I still cannot fathom how anyone could function on an equal level without magic, but I...” 

Draco exhaled, rifling a hand through his hair and swiping his bottle to his lips. He eyed Harry levelly. 

“Right. Let’s make a deal, seeing as you’re making me spill my guts. For every confession I make, you have to make one too.” 

It was fair, but Harry was suddenly afraid of what he would have to say. Nevertheless, he nodded. Draco was holding out his hand. Harry slowly took it, shaking it and looking into Draco’s steely eyes. 

Then they were just holding hands. Harry decided he wasn’t going to be the first to let go. Because this, like anything else, should be a competition. 

Apparently Draco had the same thought, because he didn’t let go of Harry’s hand either. Then they were just staring intensely into each other’s eyes _ and _holding hands. 

“So… it’s a deal, then.” Harry needlessly confirmed for an excuse to hold onto Draco’s hand longer. Godric, his fingers were long. His thumb almost reached Harry’s wrist. He had a good handshake. Not too firm _ or _ too loose. Strong. But not overbearing. He’d probably had lessons in this sort of thing as soon as he was old enough to say the _ word _ ‘handshake.’

“I guess so.” Draco replied, the tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth implying he could read every one of Harry’s thoughts.

Bloody hell. 

They dropped their hands. It had probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like whole minutes to Harry.

He leaned back in the Chaise for fear Draco might hear his heart beating wildly and went to take another sip of Firewhiskey until he realized his bottle was empty. 

“Go on, then. Confession time.” Said Harry.

Draco had completely torn the label off his bottle now and its remains lay in bits at his feet. He didn’t seem to notice, though, as he chewed his lip and stared at his feet. 

“In third year, I… I wrote Professor Lupin an anonymous letter. About me. And my Curse. Not everything, just enough for him to know that I was… different.” 

Harry held his breath. _ Holy shit. _

Draco didn’t continue. Harry waited.

“You can’t stop there.” He said, devastated at the silence that ensued. “C’mon…” 

“The deal was one confession. No context needed.” The Slytherin bastard countered slyly, knocking back more whiskey. 

“Please.” 

Draco lifted a brow, looking unbearably pleased with himself. “Did you just _ beg me, _Potter?” He chided in that low tone again, and Harry shivered. Actually… shivered. Which was absolutely the incorrect reaction he should have been having. He bristled, simultaneously disturbed and secretly hoping Draco would do it again. Just to see if his first reaction had been a fluke. 

“No.” He said slowly, wishing he had something to drink. He went to chewing his fingernails instead. Draco’s expression instantly changed. 

“That’s a really bad habit, you know.”

Harry huffed, sitting on both his hands. “Al_right_, blinking heck… you’re as bad as Hermione.”

“I do wish you would stop comparing me to Granger.” 

“Why? Because she’s a girl?” 

“No, because she’s a know-it-all.” 

Harry had to laugh. “Oh, and _ you’re not? _Pass me another one of those, I need to be drunker for this.” 

Draco was pouting again, even as he forcefully handed Harry the last Firewhiskey bottle. He tried opening it as Draco had, along the arm of the Chaise, but it was impossible. He kept bashing his own hand instead.  
Draco tutted, standing and flopping onto the Chaise next to Harry, covering his hand with his own and doing it _ for _him. 

“See?” He said, turning to him and slowly letting Harry go. Very close. He was very close. He smelled of whiskey (unsurprisingly) and… something deep and musky. Like his voice before. Deep. Musky. Unexpected. 

Maybe Harry didn’t need more whiskey after all. He began to drink again anyway, grateful for the sear that stripped the back of his throat clean for a whole ten seconds afterward. 

“Don’t be so angry about me comparing you to Hermione. She _ is _my best friend, you know. Well, one of them.” 

Draco frowned at this. Instead of moving back to his own Chaise, he leant back in Harry’s, hiking up one leg to loosely hug to his chest. The velvet emerald backdrop looked like it belonged behind him, like the Chaise was _ made _for him to pose on it. 

“Potter, you sound as though you’re about to break into song.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I swear, any time I try to say _ one thing _even remotely nice”-

-“Confess something.” Draco demanded, wandlessly summoning his Firewhiskey bottle to him in a moment that Harry could have dreamt. Even Draco looked surprised, before blinking it back and waiting on him to deliver his demand. “It’s your turn. Then I’ll tell you more of mine.”

“How is that fair?”

Draco shrugged. Slytherin. Right. Fairness wasn’t really something he cared all that much about. 

Harry sighed. “I dunno… umm… I accidentally sat on one of Mrs Figg’s cats once?” 

Draco wrinkled his nose. “Pathetic. Couldn’t care less. Try again.” 

Harry sighed, drinking some more. “Let me think.” 

“Everyone has a deep, dark, terrible secret, Harry. Even you.” 

Something about the use of his first name made him look at Draco, and this must have been the intended effect because his silver eyes were watching him closely again, his chin perched on top of his knee. 

“I feel like the whole school knows mine.” Harry said miserably. “People seem to know my secrets before I do. I didn’t know I was a Parseltongue until I actually _ did it_. I didn’t know what it meant - it just happened.” 

“I remember.” Said Draco. 

Of course. He was there. In fact, he’d been one of the first unwitting witnesses of Harry’s first terrible secret. 

“You knew, didn’t you? What it was?” 

“‘Course I did.” Draco replied instantly. Harry was sure he was slurring slightly, however much he was trying to hide it. “I was insanely jealous.” 

“Don’t be.” Said Harry with another shiver that came from a completely different place this time. 

“I’m not anymore.” 

Harry didn’t need to ask why. 

“I had you down as more interesting than this, Potter. C’mon. There’s got to be _ something _other than your useless talent to talk to snakes or I’ll be playing this game all on my own.” 

“Oh, and you’re full of dark, mysterious confessions, are you?” 

Draco laughed, leaning back like the aristocrat he definitely was. 

“Oh, you have no idea.”

But the way he said it, Harry _ wanted _to know, and he found himself following Draco’s lean, inching closer. 

“Okay,” He said slowly, licking the Firewhiskey residue off his lips, “If I think of something good, you have to tell me the rest of your first confession _ and _another one.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes, considering this. 

“Fine. But only because I doubt you’ll have anything as good as what I have to offer.”

The low voice was back, and aimed at Harry like that… it made him feel odd. Inexplicably warm and cold at the same time, the nerves in his abdomen returning like pins and needles. 

He ignored them, trying to focus instead on a secret that would truly shock Draco. 

There was one thing… 

He started to giggle before he meant to, and Draco sat up straighter.

“What? What is it?” 

“You probably won’t remember this…” Harry began, preparing with a grin, because Draco was _ not _ ready, “But… Do you remember in second year when you had a really weird conversation with Crabbe and Goyle in the common room and - _ ha - _and you told them you weren’t the heir of Slytherin?” 

Draco was obviously working hard to cast his mind back that far, but Harry saw the moment click when he got it.

“How the fuck did you know about that?” 

Harry descended into cackles, “Because that wasn’t Crabbe and Goyle. That was me and Ron.” 

Draco’s jaw dropped open. Harry doubled over, almost spilling his drink as he clutched onto the arm of the Chaise for support. 

“You little rat.” Draco breathed, sounding as much in awe as he was horrified. “How the fuck did you - but you looked exactly like”-

-“Polyjuice Potion. Made it ourselves.”

“_No. _”

“Oh, yes.”

“B-but you were twelve!” 

“Ask Myrtle all about it. She watched us brewing it half the time… when she wasn’t moping in her U bend.” 

Harry broke again at Draco’s dumbfounded expression as he began shaking his head, an incredulous smile spreading across his usually haunted features. 

“I have to say, I am impressed. I always wondered why they could never remember that bizarre conversation but to be honest I’d just put it down to general idiocy.” 

Harry wiped his eyes, thoroughly pleased with himself as the laughter died. 

“Yeah, I can see why we got away with it. Not the sharpest tools in the drawer.” 

Draco nodded, still smiling, but his eyes became far away. Alcohol or deep thought? Harry was turning this into a guessing game. 

“I… don’t see you hanging around with them much anymore.” He ventured. 

Draco gave a shrug. “None of them want to. They’re all scared of me. They think I’m gonna sell them all out to the Dark Lord.” 

Harry grimaced. “Damn. That’s… I’m sorry.” 

Draco shrugged again, taking another swig of whiskey. “S’alright. People change, move on and all that.” 

Harry couldn’t imagine where he’d be without his friends, and for all his disdain of Draco’s ex-cronies it can’t have been easy feeling so alone in his own house. 

“Do you… y’know… talk to anyone?” 

For a moment, he was sure Draco was going to snap at him. But he didn’t. 

“Astoria. Sometimes.” He said with a small laugh Harry couldn’t interpret. And ah, yes. Astoria Greengrass. He couldn’t say he knew all that much about her - he knew Luna hung out with her sometimes; he’d seen them chatting around the library more than once, but the looks Astoria usually threw his way warned him to steer clear. He had no idea what she and Luna could possibly have to talk about but they seemed to get on. 

And then there was the rumour - the rumour that she and Draco had been virtually engaged since childhood. 

Harry felt a little bit sick. But he didn’t want to ask. 

“Right.” He replied, hearing the edge in his tone before he could stop it. He coughed, not immediately loving the burn that came back to bite him after all the whiskey. “So you’re err… you’ve known her for a long time.” 

“Since we were kids. Yeah.” Draco said simply. He was giving Harry _ nothing_. Not that he knew what he wanted to hear - he just couldn’t imagine being engaged so young. To have that kind of pressure put on him when he didn’t even know what he wanted. Dating Cho had been a trainwreck. Everyone expected him to fall in love with Ginny. But he just couldn’t. He didn’t see her that way. He wasn’t entirely sure what “that way” meant anymore. Did Draco see Astoria that way? Harry tried to imagine them together. His long fingers in her hair, twisting into her braids as he leaned down to kiss her… 

The room felt very hot. Harry shakily placed his whiskey on the floor, resisting the urge to carry on falling downward as he leant. 

A strong hand gripped his shoulder. 

“Harry. You’re quite gone.” Came Draco’s voice, ever so composed and low and… his pale hand was right there, holding onto Harry like a lifeline. He couldn’t imagine that hand touching Astoria like this, holding her steady and twining his fingers in hers. Not without the world tipping ever slightly more. 

He allowed Draco to push him gently back until he was safely propping all of his weight on the back of the Chaise. 

“I am, as you said, wanker blasted.” Harry got out with a snort. And Draco laughed. It was a great sound, really, Draco’s laugh. Rich and deep when it was real. When it wasn’t scathing. 

And _ bloody hell, _this whole time they’d been getting drunk, they were supposed to be working on Draco’s patronus. Harry palmed his inside pocket, searching for his wand. 

“Christ, how long’ve we been here?” He asked. 

“Um… a couple of hours, I think. Why?” 

“Aha!” Harry pulled his wand free, and Draco’s face instantly became one of alarm. 

“Err, Harry? What are you doing?” 

Harry didn’t even need to think of a happy memory. He was already making one. He only hoped Draco felt the same way. 

“It’s the perfect time. For patronuses.” He said in rather broken English. 

Draco blinked. “Ah. Yeah.” He dug around in his back pocket for his own wand, and Harry distinctly remembered Mad-Eye Moody warning him about storing his wand there in case he accidentally blew off one of his buttocks. He then realized he was staring at Draco’s arse, long after he’d removed his wand, and glanced up to find the Slytherin watching him with an amused smile. 

Harry was about to say _ I wasn’t looking at your arse_, but one: that would immediately reveal that he was, in fact, looking at Draco’s arse and two: why was such a clarification necessary? It wasn’t as if Draco was… it wasn’t as if he was… 

It wasn’t as if he was… 

Was it?

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Oh, fuck.

Fuck. 

And this was one of those ill-timed, disaster, couldn’t-have-been-a-worse-moment kind of situations that people always warned Harry about, wasn’t it? Because now, as he gazed openly at Draco’s face in his intoxicated state - at his overgrown silky blond hair pushed haphazardly behind one ridiculously delicate ear, a few strands falling across his wide, clear grey eyes and the charmed slant of his mouth - he realized that he was irrevocably, incomprehensibly, attracted to him. 

The comprehension of the fact was so sudden and so unexpected that all Harry could do was gape at Draco like a stunned troll, all knowledge and understanding of human language and rationale abandoning him. The only word he could fathom in his whirlpool of a brain was just… fuck. 

Because fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He fancied Draco Malfoy. 

Fuck.

He had to do something. Or say something. Quickly. Before Draco figured him out. He looked at his wand. Then back at Draco. Who he fancied. Who he was attracted to. Who he -

Oh, Godric.  
He stared at his wand. His beautiful, lovely wand covered in finger-marks which he was about to use to - _ yes! _Cast a Patronus! That was why they were here, getting too drunk and too close to each other on this velvet Chaise in a bar Draco had conjured from his mind. 

“I’m going to cast a patronus now.” He said dumbly. _ Well done, Harry. Very smooth. _

“You don't need to announce it, Potter.” Draco said, raising a brow and throwing an arm over the back of the Chaise in an act far too erotic to be casual. And now that Harry had flicked that switch in his mind, everything Draco was doing _ seemed erotic_. From the way he was sitting, all legs and no mercy, to the innocent tilt of his head as he watched Harry with definite concern. 

“You appear to be having some trouble.” Draco said, smiling again. Harry had to look away.

_ He’s a bastard. He’s a bastard. He’s your nemesis. He hates you. He’s always hated you. _

But that _ smile_. It was saying something else - doing something to Harry’s brain that really just shouldn’t be legal. And probably wasn’t. Because Draco Malfoy was a twat, a posh one at that, and undeniably up-his-own-arse (but it was a very nice arse - _ fuck_).

“I am.” Harry replied after a stretch. He wasn't talking about patronuses. 

What did this mean? Was Harry gay, then? No… he’d definitely fancied Cho before she’d turned into a human water hose and shouted at him in public, but - did this mean he was... bisexual? Merlin. It was too much to comprehend. The whiskey was… blurring words in his brain. A lot. And now, perversely, he couldn’t stop thinking about Draco’s arse. He wasn’t even _ thinking about it _ thinking about it - just - think about how _ thinking about it _meant that he definitely wasn’t straight - or if he was, then he was ninety-nine percent straight and Draco was the one percent of man that he would ever be attracted to. Maybe? Possibly? And he was taking far too long to think about this because now Draco was looking at him as if he was concerned Harry was having some sort of stroke. 

“I… brought some Invigoration Draught if you need. You’ve gone a bit pale.” 

“M’fine.” Harry muttered very unconvincingly. He sucked in a deep breath and gripped his wand. He felt exactly as he did right before a big exam. Like he was about to take the test of his life and all his insides were jostling for room amidst the massive life-ruining realisation he’d just had. He closed his eyes, hauling in some much needed oxygen and tried (without much success) to temporarily expel the stomach churning feeling. 

Yes. Patronuses. He could do this. 

“Watch closely, Draco.” He said in his best teacher voice. Which, if he was thinking about it like that, probably wasn’t his best at all. 

He saw Draco stifle a laugh in his peripherals and cringed. 

But now what? How could he think of a happy, innocent memory when the subject of Draco’s arse was taking up such a large portion of his attention? 

Okay… maybe it _ was _just Draco’s arse. Maybe Draco just had an exceptionally nice behind for a man, and Harry, in his drunken stupor, had become fixated on it. He peeked at Draco’s face. His high cheekbones and smooth, angular features assaulted Harry’s vision instead.

Nope.

It wasn’t just his arse. 

“Potter, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the spell.” Draco laughed. “You can’t be _ that _fucked.” 

“Think I might be.” Said Harry. And he wasn’t lying. 

Nevertheless, he extended his wand arm and found himself closing his eyes, venturing into the warmth of his drowsy core and reliving the sensation of Hagrid telling him he was a Wizard. That he’d get to leave the Dursleys forever and begin a new life where _ magic was real_. 

_ “Expecto Patronum.” _ He said, not needing to shout because it was quiet and Draco was sat beside him and the memory itself grounded his tumultuous thoughts into something more manageable. His stag would be there, standing firm and true to comfort him and remind him that _ yes, _he was Harry and he’d fought off the most evil wizard of all time in the flesh. A little bit of confusion over his sexuality was surely the least of his problems. 

But when he opened his eyes, there was no stag. 

There was the light, yes, and in the dim bar it was almost blinding, but the stag was nowhere to be seen. The light was smaller - an incomprehensible shape as if flapped around the room in a form that wasn’t… that Harry had never seen before. 

His heart sank. 

“What… is that?” Asked Draco, squinting at the formless thing making dizzying circles around their heads.

“Failure.” Harry slumped into the Chaise, dropping his wand. “That’s what it is.” 

The pathetic patronus fizzled out and disappeared in a puff of blue light. 

“M’too drunk to make a corporeal patronus. That was rubbish.” Harry continued miserably. 

That had _ never _ happened before. To be fair, he’d never tried to conjure a patronus while absolutely off his face, but that wasn’t the point. It had _ felt right_. It had felt…

He sighed. Draco had been right last night - everything was falling apart. Everything at once. And Draco’s comforting hand on his arm did absolutely nothing to console him. The burst of heat that ran from his hand through Harry’s body only reminded him that _ ah, yes _. He had a sodding crush on him. 

The realization actively infuriated him. It wasn’t fair. There was nothing at all he could do about it. Even if by some miracle of the gods Draco _ did _ever share his feelings, it’s not as if they could… be together. There was the whole complication of them being sworn enemies since first year for one. Then there was the fact that Draco was still pretending to be a Death Eater, and dating the Chosen One would sort of massively blow his cover. 

So, yeah. It was hopeless, really.

“I’m hopeless.” Said Harry out loud, just because he could and because he was feeling awfully sorry for himself on top of the simmering humiliation at not being able to produce his patronus. Especially when he was supposed to be _ teaching him how to do it. _

“Yeah.” Draco agreed, laughing, but his expression changed to one of amused pity when he saw how seriously Harry was taking this because the fucker had _ no idea _about the shitstorm happening in his head right now. “But you’re also fucked, which won’t help. I’m sorry. This was probably a terrible idea.”

_ Yes, it was a terrible idea. _ “Nah.” Said Harry, shrugging and sitting up properly as a way to get Draco’s hand off him because his skin was actually _ burning_. “This is supposed to be about you, not me. Why don’t you try it?” 

Draco looked scared, some of the fear from last night returning to his eyes. And now it made sense to Harry why, recently, his immediate desire was to hold Draco until all that fear disappeared. Godric, Harry marvelled at his own lack of self-awareness. The implications of that thought on its own were anything _ but _platonic. He’d just been too in denial to see it. But Firewhiskey was an incredibly illuminating substance, it turned out. And Harry hated it, vowing to never drink it again for as long as he lived. He knocked back another gulp anyway. The vow could start tomorrow.

“Harry, what if…” Draco clicked his tongue, flitting his gaze back to the ground and fiddling with the lip of his bottle now that there was no more label to pick off. “What if it’s…” 

“A Dragon?” Harry finished for him, both relieved and hating that he’d been right about Draco’s fear. 

He nodded slowly. “What if it’s a Dragon?” 

Harry couldn’t promise him that it wouldn’t be. He couldn’t, because he _ might _be wrong. 

“I can’t picture your Patronus being a Dragon.” He said, because it was as honest as he could be right now. “I tried. But… I dunno. Sounds weird, but it didn’t really fit.” 

Draco gazed at him, the hope in his eyes almost as devastating as the fact that Harry very much wanted to kiss him, and trying not to stare at his mouth was beginning to feel like a bizarre form of torture.

“I don’t know, Harry, I - I don’t know.” And the vulnerability as his voice shook just about forced Harry’s hand. 

He reached out, touching the back of Draco’s white-knuckled fist with his fingertips in a very daring move that only Firewhiskey had given him the balls to do. Draco looked down at Harry’s hand on his, his throat working in a gulp.

“Look, if it is, we’ll never do it again, okay? No one else has to see it. And I wouldn’t tell anyone, alright? I promise.” 

He withdrew his hand because - because he didn’t want Draco getting the wrong idea. Or. Well. The _ right _idea. 

“What about Granger? And Weasley? Not even them?” 

Harry blinked. Oh, fuck. Draco thought he was telling them everything, didn’t he? Harry couldn’t lie to him - he’d told them a fair amount. But not… not most of it. Not about their conversations or their arguments or the shit that actually mattered to him. No way. 

“Not even them. Never.” Harry said, meaning it wholeheartedly. 

And that was when he saw Draco take a long, shaky breath, close his eyes, open them, and smile. The haze of alcohol was a glaze over his features but his eyes were like quicksilver.

“Okay.” He said.

“Okay?” Harry couldn’t help but smile back. He tried to stop it but - fuck it, how often did he get to see Draco smile like this? The whole world was about to turn tits up, and here they were, both smashed off their faces on Firewhiskey. Harry decided he could have it worse. For now, things didn’t seem so awful. If only he wasn’t so drunk that he could actually produce a corporeal patronus… but like he’d said, this wasn’t about him. 

Draco took his wand firmly in his hand, he expression becoming one of great concentration. 

“If this doesn’t work,” Harry heard himself slurring a little, “we can blame the alcohol.” 

Draco scoffed. “Revealing your tactics, Potter.”

Despite his humour, however, he couldn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes and his mouth worked into a nervous wince as he stood, holding his wand aloft. 

“Don’t overthink it,” Said Harry, his entire body buzzing as he desperately tried to avoid thinking about his disturbing revelation. And... probably buzzing due to the alcohol too. He wasn’t sure. The room was a foggy, blissful dim around his peripherals, Draco becoming the only thing that he could focus on. “You can try again whenever you like. It doesn’t have to be now.”

“You’re right.” Draco muttered, taking yet another deep breath. He was swaying ever so slightly on his feet, whether because he was fidgeting or because he was drunk, Harry couldn’t tell. 

He was prepared for Draco to take longer, for him to deliberate and talk and worry. He was prepared to talk him down, to empathize and drink and laugh until the night ran out and they decided maybe now wasn’t the right time after all. He wasn’t prepared for him to thrust his wand arm ahead of him and, with less than a breath, shout:

_ “Expecto Patronum!” _

Harry shielded his eyes. There was a brilliant flash of light, bursting from Draco’s wand in a silver-blue fountain, a fluttering of wings, and then -

It all made sense.

  
  



	14. Cores

When Draco awoke, he awoke alone. 

He blinked, the dimness around him so different to the moss tinged gloom he was used to waking up in. There was a warmth to the glow around his peripherals, gently easing his aching bones into consciousness. 

He was still fully clothed, and it wasn’t until he felt the soft velvet beneath his fingertips that he remembered where he was. 

The Room of Requirement. But not the junk-yard of lost things he was used to - it was the place he and Harry had got drunk in last night. The same as it was now. No windows, no cold, high ceilings - just the sultry, spice-scented bar from his memories. 

The record had (gratefully) stopped playing. The empty bottles discarded on the floor and Draco’s black robes hanging messily over the opposite chaise remained the only evidence of their drunken ventures from the previous night. But the Gryffindor who’d accompanied him was missing. 

Draco grunted into a sitting position, settling into the rush of flashes that danced across his mind’s eye, echoing with their laughter and the clinking bottles and…

_ His Patronus. _

He was unsure whether that had been real. Whether he really had managed to conjure it after dreaming of the moment for years or whether it had only been a wishful dream. He hoped it wasn’t a dream because if it was real - if it was real then he had no reason to be scared at all. Not of this.

Draco searched for his wand, wincing against his protesting joints. He’d been sleeping at a very unforgiving angle on the chaise. He found it tucked into the join between the back of the seat and the cushion. 

He was never usually so reckless with his wand. 

But he was never usually drunk either, so.

Draco twirled his wand in his hand, remembering the feel of it in his fingers last night as he’d jumped up with euphoric purpose, Harry’s reassurances zinging through him all the while before -

He swallowed.

“Just _ do it_, Draco.” He whispered to himself. He had to prove it had been real. 

He stood with far less confidence than he remembered himself doing last time, the burn of Firewhiskey no longer there to spur him. He only had his memory. 

But now that he’d seen it - or _ thought _ he’d seen it - he felt the creature of his soul nudging him forwards, like a tiny, friendly voice in his ear encouraging him to just _ try_. He was alone. It couldn’t hurt. 

Draco closed his eyes and with barely effort at all drew on the fresh memories of the previous night, concentrating in particular on the lingering feel of Harry’s hand on the back of his own. An action which, he was sure, Harry had thought nothing about. But it stuck in Draco’s mind clear and sharp as though it was happening all over again. That alongside the memory of their mingling laughter was enough to accompany the spell.

_ “Expecto Patronum.” _

The flurry of wings sounded and a burst of blue light flashed across Draco’s closed eyelids. He opened them, and breathed half a laugh and half a sigh of relief. 

It was real. 

His Patronus was a Kingfisher. 

_ “Oh… it’s a…” Harry had began, in shock or awe (Draco couldn’t tell). _

_ Draco stared, fairly numb from the neck down at the creature that had burst from his wand. He laughed, hearing the faint sound of his voice over the roar of his own exhilaration. He’d done it! He’d actually done it! And... it wasn’t a Dragon. Yes, it had wings, but none like his own. Rather than scales, the volant his Patronus had chosen to become was covered in feathers. It was a shame, Draco thought, that Patronuses were only one colour, because despite its incredible silver glow, he knew what colours _ should _ be there. Neon blues and violets and emeralds were the mark of the Kingfisher. Sometimes, as they dove headfirst into the pond at the Manor, all Draco would ever get to see was a dash of those colours before the sleek predator emerged again from the water, a small fish or insect speared between its beak. _

_ After his very first transformation, Draco spent that summer learning how to control his wings. The Sky Room wasn’t big enough to allow him to soar, but the Kingfisher’s deft movements had become a fascination for him. He’d thought of their careful dives and loops and studied them until he could imitate them in his own form. _

_ “A Kingfisher.” He finished for Harry breathlessly, knowing why his Patronus had taken this form. _

_ Then he’d turned to him, and saw that Harry had blanched, fixated on the movements of his Patronus as it happily darted around their heads. And then, as Draco’s confusion dawned, it faded, its glow dissipating into the warmth of their secret hiding place. _

_ “What’s wrong?” Asked Draco, discomfort and irritation squirming at the sight of Harry’s less-than-happy expression. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. A congratulations at the very least. Not this. _

_ “Did I do something wrong?” He challenged. _

_ Harry blinked, seeming to come back to the moment. “Um. What? No. ‘Course not.” _

_ He stood, somewhat stumbling, and clapped Draco hard on the back with a grin. A grin that didn’t reach his eyes which were infuriatingly unreadable. _

_“Well done! Knew you had it in you.” _

Draco tried to recall the rest, hanging onto a hope that he’d been imagining Harry’s weird reaction to his Patronus as he watched it perch on the edge of the chaise by his hand. Thankfully, it stayed instead of disappearing. He slumped back onto the green velvet, monumentally impressed with himself for not being more hungover until he remembered the Potion he’d taken after Harry had fallen asleep. Draco remembered a lot of talking had gone on. And more talking. And some laughter. And the dim haze of those green, green eyes penetrating right through his defenses and forcing him to open up. Harry was worse than Veritaserum, Draco thought as he absently smoothed his hand over the plush green velvet. So much green. Too much fucking green. 

When he glanced up again, his Patronus had disappeared. Visibly at least. He felt it inside him, not unlike the bubble of his Curse in his chest, a presence that indicated maybe… maybe he wasn’t quite the same kind of bad as the Dark Lord. Was he _ good _ ? Even the word made Draco clench his teeth. It sounded so juvenile in its simplicity, because it was something Draco didn’t think he could ever be. He’d done too many bad things. But - and amazingly, there was a _ but _ \- he had a soul. He’d proven it. His Kingfisher had proven it, if that’s what Patronuses meant. And there his Patronus sat, nestled in his heart alongside his Curse like a new, bright neighbour. The thought alone made him scoff. 

If the hollow rumble in Draco’s stomach was anything to go by, he hoped it was time for breakfast. 

*

When Harry had woken up, it was with his head in the crook between Draco’s neck and shoulder. His nose had almost been brushing up against the Slytherin’s pale skin, and he’d never jumped back from anyone so hard in his life. Harry had sat like that for some time, in the furthest corner of the chaise they’d both fallen asleep on, just… watching. Watching as it all came flooding back to him. The drinking. The joking around. The Patronus. The awful, gut-wrenching revelation that he did in fact fancy Draco. 

Harry’s heart had plummeted and bounced right back up again as he remembered it all with a jolt, including his own fumbling attempt at producing his Patronus. Which had _ flapped_. Like it had wings. The feeling wasn’t kind on his unhappy, alcohol-filled stomach and he’d had to take a few moments to breathe through it. Vomiting wasn’t an option if he could help it. 

Harry wasn’t an idiot. The second he’d seen Draco’s Kingfisher, a sobering dread had begun to fill him inside and out. He remembered what had happened to Tonks’ Patronus after Sirius had died. It had… _ changed_. Maybe the Firewhiskey hadn’t been entirely to blame after all. 

Harry had tried desperately not to think about how at peace Draco looked in sleep and how, even in his notably disheveled state, everything from the serene tilt of his head and his blond hair falling across his closed eyes to the way his legs were crossed out in front of him seemed effortlessly graceful. 

No, he hadn’t thought that at all and had instead snatched Draco’s discarded robes from the opposite chaise and gone digging around in his pockets for the vials of Invigorating Potion Draco had mentioned last night. What he didn’t expect to find was wads of crunched up parchment, falling onto the floor in his haste.

Harry picked them up, intending to put them right back in the pockets until he caught a peek of his own smudged signature. He unfurled the paper carefully, hoping to the gods Draco didn’t choose now to wake up. 

_ You don’t have to ‘get through it.’ Give yourself a break. _

It was just their letters from the previous morning. Harry swallowed back the embarrassment that rose as he re-read his own scrawled letters to Draco, only now seeing how much affection he’d unknowingly injected into each sentence. Finding himself nauseating at the delicate words, he stuffed them back in Draco’s pockets and felt around for the smooth, cold vial. He popped the cap off and downed its contents, enjoying the clean rush that bolted down his throat, cooling his insides and dampening some of the fresh anxiety. It helped. A bit. But one look at Draco soundly asleep and he felt himself slipping back again, so he gathered up his belongings, slipped quietly out of the Room of Requirement and rushed straight to the library to find as many books on Patronuses as he could get his hands on. Harry had never, not once in his life, _ rushed _ to the library, but here he was, biblically hungover and becoming its first occupant of the day. He chased the first rays of sunlight in between bookshelves and surprised even a bleary-eyed Madam Pince who hissed _ ‘Shhh!’ _ at him even though there was no one else there. _ Old Goat_, Harry thought intensely before getting back on task. 

He tried to be specific at first, picking out titles such as: _ Patronus Forms and their Meanings _ and _ Conjuring a Corporeal Patronus_, as well as a journal simply titled: _ Patronuses and Depression: A Guide to Unblocking the Soul_, which in hindsight might have been useful for Draco before last night. 

But hardly any of these talked about Patronuses with regards to romance or... feelings of a non-platonic nature, as Harry had decided to dub them for now. They were more about the specifics, the exact kind of technicalities he’d warned Draco to avoid (except the journal about depression which seemed to call diligently on the use of Astrology and Divination for conjuring a Patronus and Harry wasn’t even sure where to begin with making sense of that). 

He began scouring indexes, sorting through glossaries and jumping from shelf to shelf until, inexplicably, he stumbled upon a section about Class and Sexuality in the wizarding world. Harry had never been to this section of the library before. He’d never _ needed _to. He’d been vaguely aware of it; briefly introduced to its existence at the start of third year when McGonagall had given them all an extremely uncomfortable talk on relationships and sexual diversity, but Harry hadn’t given it a second thought back then except to guffaw with Ron behind her back rather than face up to the fact they were both awkward thirteen year-olds who’d barely learned to wank. 

Now he wished he had, because almost immediately he found something relating to what he was looking for. 

_ Magical Anomalies in Conjuration: A Study on Class and Sexuality. _The title itself sounded exactly like the sort of thing Hermione would regurgitate before unleashing fact upon fact that would fly right over Harry and Ron’s heads, but he didn’t let that put him off. And he was glad he didn’t. The language wasn’t too difficult. It was actually surprisingly easy to read despite its wordy title. 

He flicked through each chapter, scanning the words and searching explicitly for _ ‘Patronus’_, trying not to get distracted by others that caught his eye like _ ‘Bisexual’ _ and _ ‘Questioning’ _because those topics weren’t his on his list of priorities. Yet. 

Under a chapter titled: _ Changing Shape: Patronuses and Animagi_, Harry flung himself down into a shadowy corner, never having been so eager to read an academic page in his life. 

_ "It is a commonly known fact that one’s Patronus may alter and change in alignment with a partner’s or a loved one's, but whether both Patronuses change or just one remains dependent on the circumstances of the individual(s) in question. What is little documented, however, is the potentially devastating side effect that occurs when one is unable to come to terms with feelings of love due to irrespective repression and/or trauma. This sparse documentation is probably due to the taboo subject of sexuality amongst the upper classes which still remains the only subsection of Wizarding Society to outwardly oppose same-sex marriage or openly acknowledge informal homosexual relations among the circles of their society. One such travesty made the papers in 1964 after the suicide of Lady Margaret Ollivander, an esteemed member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Prophet reported on her affair with one such Celia Warner who openly disclosed a decade later that their relationship had been so turbulent that, and I quote, “neither of us could produce [a Patronus] by the end. Mine only changed at first, fluctuated from its original state to an unrecognisable imitation of something that might have resembled Margaret’s, but it was never the same. Then, it died. That’s the only way I can explain it. It died before she did.” Miss Warner, who is now an out and proud lesbian, has since campaigned to condemn those in the upper classes who oppose same-sex relationships. Indeed, Patronuses are a reflection of our baser wants and desires, appropriately taking the form of animals to express such - but with the repression of these desires comes a distortion of the Patronus itself which can, in dire circumstances, destroy it completely." _

Harry read the paragraph with a hammering heart. _ 1964… _That had been over thirty years ago. Maybe things were different now. He kept reading, both horrified and fascinated by what he was learning. The information he gathered did little to comfort him at all. Not unlike the Muggle world, homosexuality wasn’t acceptable for a long time in the Wizarding one, either. It was legalized long before it had been for muggles, but the thought still sent a wrench of unease tugging at his insides. 

It was okay for Harry though, wasn’t it? He wasn’t really… _ gay_. He’d never have it so difficult as someone like Margaret Ollivander or Celia Warner. Harry was, at the very most, bisexual (if his unexplainable crush on Draco wasn’t a fluke which it very well could be) and that… that was nowhere near as serious, was it? After all, he had other options. He had the option of a normal relationship with a girl. 

Harry thought about that. About everything he’d realized last night and the idea of just… dating a girl instead. 

He swallowed thickly, his mouth going dry. He hadn’t eaten or drank since leaving the Room of Requirement. He recognized the slew of anxiety threatening to spill over into full blown panic as he thought about what had happened to his Patronus last night after his gut-punching revelation. What if he couldn’t get it back to normal? What if his Patronus _ died _just because he couldn’t be with Draco?

Even if Draco was gay or (possibly) bisexual like him, there was the small snag that he was a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight (all helpfully listed in the back of the book) who, apparently, abhorred people like him. But then, so were the Weasleys. But they had seven children. They’d have no problem producing an heir, even if one or more of their kids turned out to be gay. Not that he could imagine Molly or Arthur preaching about ‘heirs’ or ‘pure blood’ any time soon. But as for the Malfoys… Draco was the only child. It would have to be him, or the line would die out. Hence his rumoured engagement to Astoria Greengrass, Harry supposed, the details on which Draco had been suspiciously vague on. 

_ Godric_, Harry squirmed with embarrassment for even having asked him about her. He must have sounded so obvious. 

_ No, there’s no way Draco knows you fancy the pants off him_, Harry tried to reassure himself. But nothing at all about fancying the pants off Draco Malfoy was a reassuring thought, especially in light of everything he’d been reading about.

It was a lose-lose situation. Even if in the unlikely scenario Draco _ might _reciprocate his feelings, there was no way it would ever work. The Malfoy pride, the honour of being so pure-blooded, was as engrained in Draco as Harry’s uncanny ability for finding trouble was. He couldn’t change it, even though he wanted to. The stab of despair that Harry felt at the fact reminded him forcefully that he just had to get over it. He’d got over Cho pretty fast, hadn’t he? 

But that was different. 

The fluttering of butterflies that Harry had felt around her had somehow transformed into full on flesh eating slugs in his stomach around Draco. 

Just the prospect of having to face him again later made him want to hole himself up in his room and sleep until July. 

But he had things to do. They both did. And now wasn’t the time to be dwelling on himself, especially something as arbitrary as his own feelings. With this in mind, he carefully placed each book back on the shelf where he’d found them, and headed to breakfast, his shoulders feeling heavier than they had in weeks. 

*

With a breath, Draco pushed open the door to the Room of Requirement, and tried not to allow his spirits to sink when he was met with the sight of tall towers of lost things balancing on top of one another, the musty scent of their combined disuse assaulting his nostrils as the sound of his shoes reverberating around the chamber clacked evenly along the cold, stone flags. 

Yes, it was the same as always. Only this time, he wasn’t the first one there. 

“Not like you to be early.” Draco commented at the sight of Harry pacing in front of the Cabinet, tapping his wand against his thigh. 

He whipped around at the sound of Draco’s voice, and Draco was struggling to see why he was so startled. This was just like any other night. Their usual routine, done the same as always. 

Or maybe Draco had been right and something really had changed last night after all. He stopped in his tracks, and perhaps the modecombe of panic he’d been feeling in that second showed on his features because Harry smiled and gave a breathless chuckle, carding his hand through his messy hair the way he always did when he didn’t know what to say. Draco tried not to kick himself for knowing him so well that he could almost read Harry’s thoughts in his actions. Almost.

“I thought we should…” Harry cleared his throat. “Get started.” 

Draco frowned. “Oh? Do you have a plan?” 

Harry blinked, still staring at Draco like he’d appeared in front of him dressed as Professor Trelawney - jam-jar glasses and all. 

He scratched his head again. “Well… now that you can conjure a Patronus, maybe we should - should try and see if you can access the Cabinet properly.” 

Ah. Right. The reason they were here. “Oh.” Draco replied, irrationally put-out. “Fine.”

He breezed past Harry, throwing off his heavier robes and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, looking anywhere but at the other boy as he set down his bag and yanked out his wand with a little more vigour than was probably necessary. 

He could hear Harry shuffling behind him all the while and practically felt his unease rolling off him in waves. 

Draco quickly ran out of things to prepare. He’d lined up all his books along the floor, his most used one open on its most-read page (even though he had it memorized) and now all he could do was stare at the bastarding Vanishing Cabinet and try to tune out the feckless fidgeting going on behind him. 

Unable to bear it a second longer, he spun round. 

“Potter, what the hell is the matter with you? You’re getting on my wick.” 

He was hoping for a retort. An insult flung back. Anything but the look of dumbfounded shock he received instead. 

“The matter?” Harry repeated. “I don’t”-

“_Yes_, you do know.” Draco huffed. “You’re acting bizarre and your hair is ridiculous.”

“My hair?” 

_ Wasn’t he aware of how badly he messed it up when he was stressed? _

Draco sighed. “Just tell me. I don’t want to spend the evening walking on eggshells around you.” 

They gazed at one another, Draco straight-backed with his arms crossed over his chest and Harry, shifting his weight from foot to foot and struggling to get his words out. 

“Is it about my Patronus?” Draco asked, praying to every god he was wrong. 

Harry’s eyes widened. “You… How did you”-?

“What, it wasn’t good enough for you or something? I knew something was off,” Draco challenged, trying to push past the hurt, “But I thought you’d at least be, I don’t know, _ pleased _for me or”-

And then Harry started to laugh. He laughed with his whole chest, his expression breaking out into what Draco could only recognize as relief. Which couldn’t be right, could it? This was... cold. Especially for him. Unless - and this was the more likely scenario - Draco had missed something.

“Oh, Godric, Draco, _ no. _” Harry gasped at Draco’s scowl. “Fuck, I’m sorry… No. Your Patronus was fine. More than fine. It was brilliant.” 

A tiny burst of pleasure unfurled in Draco’s chest at those words, but he tried to ignore it because Harry was making absolutely no sense at all. 

“Then, _ what_?” He demanded, becoming more irritated than offended now as Harry continued to laugh.

“It’s just _ me. _ ” Harry shook his head, red-faced. “It’s just me being a - a _ moron_.” 

“I gathered that a while ago.” 

Harry recovered and looked at Draco with a slight grimace. “You remember when I tried to conjure one and I… well, I couldn’t do it?” 

Draco nodded. 

“I felt… I dunno, I felt weak, I guess.” Harry shrugged, looking away. “That’s all.” 

_ “That’s _what this is about?” Draco seethed. “Points for dramatism, Potter, I was beginning to think there was actually something wrong.” He rolled his eyes to mask his own relief because - it wasn’t about him. That was the main thing. Harry didn’t… didn’t hate him. 

“No… no problems.” Harry said slowly, looking at his feet. “Just me.”

Draco watched as the brightness slid off the Gryffindor’s features like mud. 

“You’ve got a face like a slapped arse.” 

Harry gave a pathetic scoff. “Yeah, well.” His expression became unreadable as he finally met his gaze again. “So? Want to start?” 

Draco didn’t like it when he did that; when he refused to explain himself and decided all Draco deserved to hear was a sad and morbidly illiterate: ‘_Yeah, well.’ _Like that solved anything. Like it meant anything at all. 

His bad mood proved to be counterproductive for the next half an hour as he attempted and failed, over and over again, to get in touch with his core. And it was almost the same as last time. The Curse got in the way, every time, only now there was the tiny added benefit of a small nudge between his ribs that felt a lot like his Patronus - his Kingfisher leading the way to the pit of his stomach and guiding him downward until he felt... well, he didn’t get that far. Because Harry was infuriating. 

He was doing that _ horrific _ thing with his face where it distorted into something like a smile, but never quite. Like the fake smile was simply there to mask something else that he wasn’t going to tell Draco and _ that’s _what annoyed him the most. They were supposed to trust each other now, weren’t they?

Last night, Draco had felt it. Or thought he’d felt it. Trust. _ Real trust. _

Or maybe real trust didn’t exist and Draco was digging himself into another delusion that would only end in misery. 

On this thought he abandoned ship, stomping away from the Cabinet and trying to look anywhere but Potter’s crestfallen face as he swiped up his things and left. He just… left. 

And he didn’t sleep at all that night. 

When he came to the Room of Requirement the next day, Harry was there first again. This time he greeted Draco somewhat sheepishly, and at least tonight he wasn’t pretending to be happy. 

But somehow this felt worse. 

Draco made his excuses before they’d even started, blaming tiredness (which in all fairness would have been more than believable thanks to the purpling shadows under his eyes which made him resemble the Bloody Baron more and more everyday). 

And on the third day of barely exchanging two words to Harry and avoiding him - and all the incessant thoughts that came with him - the other boy snapped. 

“I get it.” Harry told Draco as he entered the Room of Requirement, arms folded across his stocky frame in face of Draco’s slumped shoulders. “You don’t want me here.”

If Draco was in the laughing sort of mood, he would have laughed at that, because it couldn’t be further from the truth. 

But he wasn’t. 

“What?” He bit back, dousing his tone with as much disdain as he could. Honestly, Draco had no idea _ what _this was all about. He desperately wanted to know the reasons for Harry’s disturbing jitteriness over the past couple of days and it was only his pride that stopped him from asking. He might have saved himself a lot of sleepless nights had he just come out and demanded answers, but he wasn’t about to give in now. 

“I get it.” The Gryffindor repeated, “I’ve become a nuisance.” 

“You’re always a nuisance. Why is it bothering you now?” 

“Draco”-

“Oh for goodness sake, siit down, Potter, and stop being such a big girl’s blouse. _ You’re _the one who’s been acting like a ginormous tit for the past two days so I don’t know why you’re starting on me.” 

Harry didn’t sit down. Instead frowned deeply, like he wasn’t actually aware of what he’d been doing. Like he was actually even more of a moron than Draco had thought which, ludicrously, only made him relieved. 

“...But you’ve been ignoring me.” If it was meant to sound like an accusation, it failed. Abysmally. 

“Because you were putting me on edge! You were skirting around my ankles like a guilty house-elf all night! It was bloody annoying!”

“Because I didn’t know what to - how to _ help _\- you were all huffy and broody and I thought”- 

“Broody? _ Broody? I’m _broody?” 

A small smile - a _ real _smile - played around the corners of Harry’s mouth. 

“Draco, if you were _ one _ emotion, it would be broody. You brood like it’s a contest.” 

“I do _ not_!” 

“You do. You're doing it right now.” He was grinning, and Draco was horrified.

He could not believe they were having this argument. They sounded like… like… well, his brain was providing him with numerous disturbing examples of how they sounded and he was loath to think on them just yet. 

Draco crossed his arms, mirroring Harry. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have been so… “_ broody” _… if you’d just come out and told me what the bloody hell was wrong with you.” 

Harry sighed, low and long, and dropped his gaze. “Yeah. I s’pose that’s on me.” 

“So? Are you going to tell me, then, or am I supposed to read your mind?” 

Harry grimaced. “Please don’t.” 

“Believe it or not, Potter, I wouldn’t happily volunteer to venture into what I can only imagine is the sloppy mess of your consciousness. I doubt I would come out alive.” Draco lied, as if a peek into the entropic workings of Harry’s mind wasn’t something he’d craved since the day he’d discovered just how passionately he’d hated Harry which, in hindsight, made his Curse burn in his chest similarly to how it did when Harry looked at him like _ this _ \- scanning him with open, green eyes like he didn’t care who saw. Like he wanted Draco to see him doing it. 

Draco dropped his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets so he could grasp hold of his wand. He felt like he needed something to hold onto under that gaze. 

“I don’t have all night.” Said Draco which, again, was a lie. He would wait all night for this. To make things... better. Or at least, less awkward. He hated how badly he’d let the tension of the past couple of days affect him. At least when they’d been at each other’s throats he’d been able to sleep at night. 

Harry ran a hand through his hair, back and forth over and over again. Draco bit back the urge to smile. It was hard to take anyone seriously when their head looked like it had recently been used to rake a lawn. 

“It’s… the war.” Harry said vaguely, chewing his fingernails now instead. 

Draco blinked. “You’re going to have to be more specific.” 

Harry huffed, and sat on the floor, rather than the chair directly behind him. He brought his knees up to his chest and thumped his forehead against them. Once. Twice. Draco would have started to worry if he’d bashed it a third time, but he didn’t. He just stayed like that, awfully small and balled up. It didn’t suit him. 

“Everything that’ll come with it, you know?” Harry told the floor. “I can deal with the fighting and stuff. I can deal with dying, even. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. It’s the other shit. The saying goodbye to people or the… you know, the _ not _saying goodbye. Not knowing when the last time I’ll see someone could be. Not knowing if I could have saved them.” 

“You’re being terribly morbid about something that hasn’t even happened yet.” Draco commented. He didn’t want this conversation. Not now. Not yet. Not when Harry didn’t even know that they barely had months. Draco hadn’t found the courage to tell him yet. He’d been _ meaning _to, it was just… he hadn’t exactly processed it himself yet. 

“But it _ will _happen.” Harry pressed as he lifted his head to fix Draco with a pained glare. “And there’s nothing I can do to…” He gulped, “stop it.” 

The room became very cold, dropping in temperature with every loud beat of Draco’s heart in his ribcage. 

Harry glanced at the Cabinet. “The best plan we have is to fucking lure them in and catch them off guard using _ you_. A _ kid_. How fucked up is that?” 

Draco began to shake his head. “I can’t go back and”-

“But it isn’t your fault.” Harry turned his despairing eyes back on Draco, scorching him. “Every single fucking day we hear about someone else whose been killed. More families torn apart, more and more of our friends and classmates dropping out because it’s _ happening_. It’s happening and it doesn’t feel… real.” 

“Merlin, Potter. Whenever I start to think things are getting easier, here you are to remind me that everything is still shit. Where would I be without you bringing me back down to Earth?” 

“Don’t.” Harry said, dropping his forehead onto his knees. “Please, just don’t.” 

Draco bit back another sarcastic retort. He didn’t know how to bloody _help_. Harry had got himself into a rut, but Draco had never exactly been the comforting type. He stepped closer to Harry, the Vanishing Cabinet a shadow in his peripherals. 

Of course, Harry was right - everything was utterly fucked - but Draco had had a lot longer to get used to that than Harry. It was like seeing a reflection of himself from months ago; so close to succumbing to despair, sheer desperation the only driving force for his actions. And it was funny, he thought, how he wasn’t even thinking about himself right now. How suddenly, getting Harry out of this ditch of helplessness he’d been digging over the past couple of days felt far more important than anything else. 

Draco couldn’t exactly pinpoint the second it happened in between this thought and the moment it… well… _ happened. _All he knew was that something inside him was reaching out - tentatively scoping the terrain outside of his body and latching onto Harry. 

Draco didn’t mean to close his eyes, but it made everything easier to visualize when he did. He heard Harry gasp and the short,“Draco, what”- before he fully understood what he’d done. 

Harry’s magical core was not what Draco had been expecting, but he shouldn’t have been surprised by what he found. It was like discovering an entirely new sense. A combination of seeing and feeling all at once - and it was like _ fire_. But not the same kind of fire Draco was used to. Not the fire that kindled in his veins as he transformed, lighting a pit in his stomach and curling embers through his throat. It tasted like chaos. It didn’t scald him so much as it spread like a warm palm splaying against the inside of his ribs. It was a layered plethora of sensation, Harry’s magical fingerprint displaying itself willingly at Draco’s call. It was almost too much to bear.  
Draco was scared to open his eyes, sure that he would be met with blinding light. 

“Is this what your magic is like _ all the time_?” He laughed, feeling drunk on it. 

Harry’s displaced scoff echoed back. “I mean… yeah.”

Draco made a conscious effort to inhale deeply through his nose before exhaling hard, his breaths coming out embarrassingly shakey. 

“Draco,” Harry’s awed voice came again, closer now. “You found your core.” 

“Because I wanted to find yours.” 

He hadn’t meant to say it, really. And Harry’s answering silence made him nervous, so he cautiously opened his eyes, surprised when everything looked the same. But he could still _ feel _it. It was like wearing someone else’s skin. 

Harry was standing utterly rigid, hands curled into tight fists. He was frowning hard at Draco. 

“I can feel your magic.” He said, barely opening his lips to talk. “It’s… hard.” 

Draco raised a brow before he could help himself. 

“Controlled.” Harry elaborated, sounding vaguely like he was in pain. Draco laughed again, his limbs feeling lighter and looser than ever. Harry’s magic wasn’t like fire. It was lava. Liquid flame.

“Now all your backfiring makes sense.” Said Draco, “I can’t possibly imagine trying to reign in all of this. Your magic is a mess, Harry.” He gave his fingers an exploratory flex. 

Harry swallowed thickly. “This is odd. Really odd. But not terrible.”

“Stop flattering me, Potter, it might go to my head.” Draco snorted. “And sit down. You’ll give yourself cramp.”

Harry nodded stiffly, crossing his legs on the floor as he settled down slowly, his eyes far away as he navigated Draco’s core. And Draco could _ feel _him doing it, that was the truly weird part of it. Hot tendrils of power snaked around his core while he plunged himself into Harry’s. It was intimate, exposing something far more visceral and integral to his being than he’d ever be able to put into words. And he’d just shown it all to Harry Potter. 

He began to withdraw, gently hauling back his core from Harry’s heat, hoping desperately that it wouldn’t disappear. Harry took a shuddering gasp as Draco pulled it free. 

“That was…” He began.

“I’m sorry.” Draco said, the heat of Harry’s core disappearing all at once - snatched back in an instant. 

“What for?” Asked Harry, blinking and shaking out his limbs whilst Draco crossed his. 

“I didn’t ask your permission. I just did it. I didn’t know what to, I mean”-

“Stop apologizing. Seriously.” Harry smiled gently, and maybe it was tinged with sadness, but it was real - reaching his eyes this time. Draco hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it; the easy way Harry smiled. Ugh. This would be a lot easier if he didn’t have the ghost of Astoria’s voice twittering in his ear every time the fleeting notion of Harry’s increasingly noticeable attractiveness occurred to him. _ Obsessed with each other_, honestly. It was enough to make anyone sick. Draco tried to focus on something else instead. Like the fact he’d just achieved the very thing he’d been trying to do for months. 

This wasn’t like the moment with his patronus. He didn’t feel exhilarated or overwhelmed. In fact, and it sunk down on his shoulders with dreadful finality, he was fairly certain where he’d felt his core emerge from, because it was the exact same place he’d been trying to avoid. 

“Draco, what’s the matter?” Asked Harry.

Draco worked his tongue, but it felt like choking, actually admitting it. 

“Granger was right. It’s my Curse. My core and my Curse. They’re tied together.”

  
  



	15. Felix Felicis

If Draco wasn’t coping with his realization about his core, he was hiding it well. After that night, Harry noticed the new stride in Draco’s step. He took to fixing the Cabinet with the same kind of steely eyed determination that he only ever saw in Hermione during exam periods. He decided it would be unwise to quiz Draco about his feelings on the subject for now. Besides, he had to… take a step back.

For his own sake, more than anything.

For his _ Patronus’ _sake. 

Harry had almost wept with joy when his stag had returned to him, however fleeting the moment had been. He made a conscious effort every day to find somewhere private where he could test out his Patronus, and the results were… interesting. 

His Patronus hadn’t got to the state Celia Warner had described in her unsettling memoir to _ The Prophet_. It wasn’t in flux, exactly, it just seemed confused. Harry had to physically will his stag to him. And sometimes, when he first cast the spell, there was a flutter of wings before the shape distorted itself into the image he’d come to know so well. Harry returned to that section of the library more times than he was willing to admit. Once, Luna had even caught him around there, and he couldn’t have acted more obvious if he’d tried; hastily stuffing the books back in their wrong shelves and stuttering out some sore excuse about being bored and _ exploring_. 

Luna had the decency not to call him out on his atrocious fibbing. Instead, she invited him for tea in the Greenhouses and checked out several tomes on homosexuality for herself. Harry only hoped she wasn’t doing it to make him feel better. 

Ron and Hermione became very tight-lipped on the subject of Draco around Harry. He couldn’t help but notice how they’d stopped asking him about their evenings together. He’d told them briefly that Draco was making progress on the Cabinet, and that he was sticking to a routine on catching Draco up on the classes he missed (which was half-true - even if he did spend most of their sessions perched on one of the spindly chairs, watching Draco become absorbed in complicated spell-casting as he delved deeper into the Cabinet’s core. He couldn’t help it. It was mesmerising). But that was as far as the conversation usually went.

In the back of his mind all he could think was _ ‘They know. They know. They know.’ _ But surely - _ surely - _ they would have said something. If not Hermione, then definitely Ron. But nothing. Not a peep. Not even a: _ “Hey, Harry. You sure you’re not into blokes?” _which he’d been bracing himself for ever since his realization. 

But nothing came. 

If it wasn’t for the clamouring distraction of his ever-growing boner for his ex-enemy, the transition from March into April wouldn’t have been so eventful at all. 

That was, until Dumbledore’s letter. Dumbledore’s passive aggressively worded letter informing Harry that he _ needed _Slughorn’s memory if they were to have a fighting hope against Voldemort. 

The letter induced the same sense of guilt he always got when he discovered he’d left an assignment far too late and he’d have to rush it at the last minute. Only, this wasn’t an assignment. 

Lives depended on this. His own included. 

Harry sighed, throwing the letter into the common room fire almost as soon as he received it. How the Wizarding World expected a short-sighted sixteen year old with a serious unrequited crush on his ex-school-nemesis to save the world, he truly had no idea. But he had to try. Partly because just the notion that Dumbledore was disappointed in him was enough to make him squirm with shame.

It was late April when Harry had the stellar idea to finally make use of the prize he’d won in his first term thanks to the Half-Blood Prince. 

*

_ The date of the gathering is July 1st. _

_ Destroy this. _

_ NM _

_ “Incendio.” _

Draco pointed his wand and burned the letter in his fingers, small iridescent scales materializing to protect his human skin before he even had time to think about it. 

It had been too long since his last transformation, and the itch spreading throughout his body was becoming incessant. 

He’d made good progress on the Cabinet, making far more progress over the past few weeks than he had in almost two terms. The Cabinet’s core was bright tonight, no longer flickering a sickly thin green but instead fledging into a radiant glow _ almost _indicative of a completely healthy core. 

There was still work to do but, in the scheme of things, it was almost finished. The ashes of his mother’s letter drifted onto the cold stone flags of the Room of Requirement. Draco watched them, trying to kindle some sort of feeling of triumph at everything he’d done. He’d never worked so hard on anything in his life. The Cabinet had, at one point, _ been _his life. But now it just felt… 

“Sod it.” He scuffed his shoes amidst the tiny ashes, pushing them into the grain of the stone until they disappeared. 

Harry was late.

_ Exceedingly _late. 

Draco huffed, glaring at the door. 

Maybe he’d decided not to come tonight. But surely a letter in advance would have been polite. Not that Harry’s presence had been useful, exactly. All he’d really done was sat and talked to Draco about everything and nothing while he worked on the Cabinet. Staying silent when Draco needed him to, distracting him with stupid stories about Quidditch practice when Draco got frustrated with the work. No, he hadn’t exactly contributed to fixing the Cabinet, (unless he counted teaching Draco how to form a Patronus which… now he thought about it was actually pretty integral to everything he’d done) but Draco couldn’t imagine doing it without him. 

Harry’s absence was more noticeable now than the boy himself. When Draco _ wasn’t _with Harry - when he was in his dorm or a class he didn’t have with him - he noticed. 

Which is why it was astoundingly inconsiderate of him to not inform Draco he was going to skip out on their session tonight. 

Unless something had happened to him.

Draco frowned at the closed door which hadn’t budged since he’d come in here half an hour ago. 

It was possible. It went without saying that Harry was no stranger to trouble but -

No. There was no point in worrying.

Even so, Draco found he couldn’t concentrate on his work. The silence around him was _ loud._

Even when Harry was silent, he was usually still making a noise. Scritching his pen as he caught up on homework or clicking his tongue or sighing - 

Something of that ilk. 

Draco’s Curse seemed to hate the silence too, because it was hissing under his skin like a pot about to boil over. 

Draco muttered obscenities to himself, grumbling as he packed away his belongings and stormed out of the Room of Requirement to the only place he had left to go before he exploded in the corridors and wreaked holy havoc on the school. There was something appealing about the idea of transforming in front of everyone and going absolutely batshit crazy for a few hours. Not to _ hurt _anyone. Just to see their faces. 

The thought made him smirk, because he could imagine what Harry would say to that. 

_ You bloody Slytherin. _

It wasn’t exactly an insult, but the way Harry usually said it implied it was one. 

The change in the weather had happened almost overnight. Fragrant cherry blossoms shed their petals like pink snow, scattering them across the grounds and filling the evening with every essence of Spring Draco loved. 

For him, Summer was too hot. Winter was miserable. Evenings like this, where it was warm and breezy and the sun had just set were perfect, especially for what he was about to do.

His Curse couldn’t transform fast enough, and despite his reluctance to indulge in the feeling, spreading his wings and arching the long stretch of his neck and spine was a huge relief. 

Draco didn’t do anything drastic. He kept himself small, stuck to the canopies of the trees and stayed in the inner circle of the Forest where no student, however rebellious, was likely to cross. Unless their name was Harry Potter. 

The stars were out by the time Draco felt satisfied enough to become human again. Contented, he _ accio _’d his clothes, dressing loosely in trousers and his shirt. He left his feet bare and his collar unbuttoned. 

For once, he thought, everything had gone smoothly.

_ Crack. _

Draco spun around, yanking his wand free. 

“Who’s there?” He demanded. His senses were on high alert, scanning every tree and crevice for an intruder. If someone had seen him and he had to use an _ Obliviate _again - 

“Hullo.”

Draco turned, his heart still pounding with alarm. 

Harry waved at Draco a little sheepishly as he snuck out from behind the tree he’d been hiding behind. 

Draco stuffed his wand back in his pocket.

“You bloody codswallop.” Draco snapped, trying not to feel very slightly elated by the fact that Harry was finally _ here_. “I thought I’d been seen!” 

“Just me.” Said Harry with another odd little wave as he stepped. Draco blinked - that wasn’t a step. It was a _ skip._

“Potter, are you _ drunk_?”

“Look what I got!” Harry beamed at Draco, his eyes twinkling akin to the stars above their heads. He produced a slim silver vial, its contents pulsing with fine, blueish threads. “I did it!” 

Draco raised a brow questioningly. 

“Slughorn’s memory! I got it!” Harry whooped. Actually _ whooped_. And giggled. 

Draco could only stare. 

“You’ve lost the plot.” 

“Never had it.” Said Harry, winking at him. And oh, _ Merlin_. The physical reaction Draco experienced to Harry’s throwaway but _ scandalous _little wink left him reeling. It was a good job he was already flushed from his transformation or Harry might have noticed. And then, to add insult to injury, Harry grabbed his hand and began dragging him away. 

“Potter!” Draco squawked, snatching his hand away and stopping still. The baleful look Harry gave him was almost enough for Draco to give in and just go along with it. “What is going on with you? Did someone - I dunno - _ hex you _or something?” 

Harry laughed, rubbing the back of his head, bashful. Harry Potter. _Bashful. _

“Um. No. Remember when I won that contest Slughorn made us all do in first term? The one where we had to make the Draught of Living Death?” 

How could Draco forget? He’d been so angry he’d lost to Harry of all people that he’d gone and kicked the Cabinet so hard he’d broken his toe. He would take that to his grave.

“I think I recall.” And then - “Don't tell me you…” 

Harry’s face said it all. 

Ah. So this was the Felix effect. 

Draco buried his face in his hands, laughing before he could help himself. “Bloody hell, Harry…”

This time, Draco let himself get dragged along by Harry bloody Potter, his hand surprisingly smooth and dry in Draco’s no-doubt clammy one. 

By the time they reached the forest’s edge, Draco was running out of breath and Harry was just getting in his stride. 

“Aren’t you worried we’ll be seen?” Draco whispered, because it was dark and quiet and they were practically holding hands for fuck’s sake. 

Harry shook his head, that ridiculous grin still plastered on his face. “Nope. Wanna show you something.” 

The _ something _Harry wanted to show him turned out to be nowhere near as exciting as Draco had anticipated. 

He’d had an inkling it wouldn’t be when they’d gone to the Greenhouses of all places. 

“Venomous Tentacula.” Draco stated, rather unimpressed as Harry stopped in front of the row of plants, serenely waving their stalks in the air. “Lovely.” 

“I caught Professor Slughorn _ stealing _ the leaves!” Harry said, all serious, in a hushed whisper. “To _ sell!_ For _ money!_” 

Draco was barely resisting the urge to laugh. He made a mental note to burn this memory into his brain forever. 

“I see.” He replied, doing a very poor job of holding back a smirk. “And you showed me this… because?”

Harry paused, his mouth open in a little ‘o’. “Gossip, innit?” 

Draco was silently dying. His stomach _ hurt _from how hard he was holding in his laugh, all so he wouldn’t hurt Harry’s feelings. 

“Godric,” He let out a snort “You’re so _ sincere_.” 

Harry flapped his arms, reminding Draco of a ruffled goose.

“I thought you’d appreciate it! He’s a Slytherin, you’re a Slytherin, you and all your Slytherin pals must have some kind of - gossip group where you - you know - share all the bitchy little things you find out about each other!” 

“You think we have a - sorry, let me just ingest that phrase - a _ gossip group?"_ Draco echoed with glee, thanking every saint in the stars for giving him this moment. There was no amount of gold he’d trade for this. 

“...Maybe?” Harry tried, visibly losing faith in his idea. 

This time, Draco burst into guffaws that had him bending forward and clutching his sides. Harry didn’t join in. He pouted, crossing his arms and looking so put-out that it only made Draco laugh more. 

At least Harry was smiling through his half-hearted scowl by the time Draco straightened up to breathe before his lungs collapsed.

“I appreciate the thought, Potter,” Said Draco breathlessly, meaning it, “But… well, it’s not as if I have many people to gossip to. No real friends, remember?” 

Harry’s face fell, and Draco wished he could retract his statement. 

“I don’t lose sleep over it.” He said with a scoff, but Harry’s expression only became sadder, “Not all of us campaign for house unity across the board, you know. It doesn’t matter.”

Harry dropped his gaze and began to wander the length of the greenhouse, stopping beside the quietly rushing stream that ran through its centre to accommodate the Gillyweed. Draco knew Felix Felicis made a person lucky, but he had no idea it could make them this melodramatic. 

“What about me?” He asked, and Draco felt every trace of a smile fade from his face. 

“I mean…” 

Draco wasn’t so sure he classed Harry as a friend. He wasn’t sure he _ could, _given some of his more recent thoughts about him. But he couldn’t exactly tell Harry that. 

Before he could think of a response, Harry gave a sullen, one-shouldered shrug and glowered into the water. 

Draco huffed, running a hand through his hair. This was becoming more bloody difficult than it needed to be.

“Harry, I do like you.” Said Draco, desperately trying to adopt the tone of someone completely unbothered with life whilst in reality his heart was pummelling against his ribs and all he could think was _ I can’t believe I just said that_. But the way Harry’s head snapped up and his eyes widened would make anyone think he’d just got down on one knee and offered him his hand in marriage. 

“The last time I asked you if you trust me you said no, so I didn’t want to presume.” Said Draco. _ Turn it on him, turn it on him, turn it on hi- _

“Oh.” Said Harry inside a sigh. He shook his head with a small smile and looked back at the water in an indecipherable motion. “Yeah, I suppose I did say that.” 

He hopped across the stream, almost hitting his head on one of the plants suspended from the ceiling, its periwinkle blue flowers cascading over his shoulder. He unceremoniously batted them away, slowly pacing the length of the stream and avoiding Draco’s eyes all the while. 

Draco had never given this Greenhouse much thought during his herbology lessons. It was just a Greenhouse. But with Harry in it, walking amongst its botanical wonders, shoulders hunched and hair mussed galore, Draco couldn’t help but think it was quite... aesthetically pleasing. 

He physically cringed at the thought, and kicked a little water out of the stream to distract himself from the unwelcome tirade of unwelcome _feelings_ that were starting to inch into his consciousness. 

Some of the water landed on Harry’s leg. 

The other boy stopped, giving Draco a glance full of challenge before swiping more water at him with a swift kick. 

“Hey-”! 

Harry did it again with significantly more gusto, and this time some of it landed in Draco’s mouth. He spluttered, coughing it up because it tasted _ disgusting._ But it didn’t matter because Harry was finally laughing as they began an extremely childish water fight. 

It was cold. And slimy. And gross. And _ fun._

Draco did not envy the first person who had to meet Professor Sprout in the morning because she was going to be furious at the mess she’d find, but he really didn’t care because Harry was sopping wet and _ giggling_. And so was Draco. Probably. He was sure they’d have gone on until the stream was empty and absorbed into the fibres of their clothes, but then Harry stopped and his expression became serious.

“Someone’s coming.”

Draco stood up straight, his shirt sticking to him as he dripped all over the floor and stared at Harry, at a loss. 

Maybe it was the _ Felix Felicis,_ maybe Harry was just quicker than Draco ever gave him credit for, but the next moment the Invisibility Cloak was being flung in his face and he was saying _ “oh not this again” _as Harry shushed him and scrambled to the opposite corner. 

Draco sighed and took himself to the other side of the room under the cloak where he proceeded to sit on the hard, unforgiving floor, his clothes leaking a pool all around him.

At this point, he almost wished he could just get caught being friends with Harry Potter and get the fuss over with. Even so, he held his breath as the glass door swung open and in came barrelling -

Neville Longbottom. 

He skidded on the wet floor upon entry, barely catching himself as he noticed Harry in the corner. There weren’t many places to hide but surely he could have done a better job than that. 

“Er, hi, Neville.” Said Harry brightly in the same tone he’d greeted Draco, which made him suspect he’d been watching him in the forest for longer than he’d initially thought. 

“Godric’s Gonads,” Neville burst out in his thick northern accent, “You scared the everloving shit out of me, Harry. What are you doing here? And why are you all wet?” 

Draco was at a loss as to why Harry had thought the better idea was to put _ him _under the cloak when he was so obviously awful at coming up with a lie to explain himself. Draco would have done a much better job. Actually, he was sure Longbottom would have seen him and simply ran a mile in the opposite direction which would have saved them both from dealing with this malarkey. 

“I heard someone was stealing Tentacula leaves,” Harry said, “so I came to… check out the situation.” 

“But that still doesn’t explain why you’re covered in water”-

“Longbottom, what’re you bitching about now?” 

No one, not even Draco could have been prepared to see Theodore Nott sauntering through the Greenhouse doorway and clapping Longbottom hard on the shoulder, two bottles of Firewhiskey clutched in his other hand. 

Theo shook his curls out of his eyes, squinting at Harry. 

“Oh, balls. It’s Potter.” 

For once, Draco could empathize with Harry’s speechlessness. 

"No_tt?” _He exclaimed, glancing between him and Longbottom, bewildered. “Nev… why’re you…?”

Longbottom gave a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Harry”-

“We came here so I could steal Longbottom’s pocket money, didn’t we?”-

“Theo”-

“I’ve just been, you know, giving him a hard time. Bullying. Peer pressure. All that.”

“Theo, let me explain”- 

“Okay, that was a lie. He’s actually got me under the _ Imperius _curse and he’s”-

“THEO! SHUT UP!” 

Draco had never heard Longbottom shout before. Never. But he couldn’t deny, the force of it was rather impressive. He tried to meet Harry’s eyes from across the room until he remembered he was invisible. 

What was even more unbelievable still, was that Theo did, in fact, shut up. For _Longbottom_... the boy they’d relentlessly teased since first year. 

Theo’s lanky body sagged and he gave a theatrical sigh. 

“‘Aight. This one’s on you, Nevvy. I’ll be under the Whomping Willow coaxing it into a boxing match so I can get knocked out and erase the look of Potty’s dumbstruck mug from my mind when you’re done.”

Without even turning around, Longbottom lashed out a hand and yanked Theo inside by his robes before he could leave.

“No, don’t slink off. I want Harry to understand.” 

“Understand what?” Harry asked, saying out loud exactly what Draco had been thinking.

“That not everything is what it looks like.” Said Longbottom, pushing out his chest. “Not every Slytherin is an evil Death Eater hellbent on seeing you defeated.” 

“Okay, that’s not what I said.” Theo cut in, “I don’t really care what happens to you, Potter, but I’m not a savage”-

“Theo, be quiet.” 

“Yep.” 

Longbottom inched further into the room, just as Harry said,

“Are you two… _ together?"_

Draco had to stuff his fist in his mouth so he didn’t make a noise. The room held its breath. There was a beat of silence, and then:

“PAHAHAHAHA!” Theo lost it, just as Draco knew he would. “Did you hear that, Nev? He thinks we’re bumming!”

Even Longbottom’s mask of sincerity had slipped somewhat and he was looking at Harry with a mixture of pity and amusement,

“I know you’ve got ‘bottom’ in your last name, but…” Theo simply could not hold it together, and Draco couldn’t blame him. “Add that to the list of moments I want read out at my funeral. Please. I beg you.” 

Longbottom rolled his eyes. “Alright, Theo. And no, Harry, we’re not - um - _ together_. We are mates, though.” 

_ “Soulmates?” _Theo mocked, blinking up at Longbottom with exaggerated doey-eyes and it was physical torture for Draco to be confined to silence right now. He’d held in too much laughter tonight to be healthy. 

“More like drinking buddies, I suppose. But dream on, nutter.” 

Longbottom and Theo. Laughing with each other. Add _ that _to the list of things Draco never could have imagined he would see in his life. 

Harry had composed himself somewhat and his demeanour had turned from bemusement to one of curiosity. 

“Neville, please explain.” 

“Right.” Said Longbottom. “So back in February, I came down here one night for some peace”-

“Peace. D’you hear that? Who comes to the Greenhouses for _ peace,_ I never…”

“Y_ou,_ apparently.” Longbottom shot back at Theo. “Mind you, he was drunk as a skunk and I don’t think he even recognised me when I found him.”

Theo pulled a face, but he didn’t deny it. Classic, Draco thought. 

“He was crying”-

“I had the sniffles.” Theo argued, “The plants set off my hay-fever.”

“Right.” Longbottom snorted, “Anyway, we got talking and he offered me a drink and… well, you know. We just sort of kept meeting up here for a chat every week or so. I tried to tell you when it first happened, but you were said you were busy and, well, it’s sort of been hard to get hold of you ever since, Harry.” 

Draco suspected (and hoped) he was the reason for Harry being difficult to get hold of. _ That’s right, Longbottom, you don’t know everything either… _

Harry gaped. “But Neville, he’s - his father’s a”-

And then Harry stopped, just as Draco felt his stomach drop to the floor. Harry closed his mouth and somehow, from across the room, stared directly at Draco. He shuffled uncomfortably, wrapping his arms around himself and dropping his eyes to the floor. 

_Say it, Potter, I dare you. Say 'Death Eater'. Finish that sentence. _Draco willed spitefully. 

“I mean… if you trust him. I believe you.” 

Draco couldn’t take his eyes off Harry - couldn’t untangle the mess of thought and emotion pounding through his veins as the tattoo on his forearm glared at him from where it was crossed across his knee. 

Theo was the first to speak. “Potter, are you fucking with us? Because no offence, but you’re the whole sodding reason neither of us wanted to fess up to our weird little friendship thing to begin with, you know? Half-expected you to hex my dick off the moment I saw you in here, to be honest.” 

To them, it must have looked like Harry was looking away, but Draco knew Harry was trying to make eye-contact with _ him _as he spoke. 

“I’m sorry, Nott. But, no. I believe you. Things are far more complicated than any of us first thought.”

It was aimed so obviously at Draco - but neither of them could know that. 

Longbottom walked over to Harry, his face full of disbelief. 

“Harry, I… are you sure?”

Harry nodded, straightening his shoulders and standing to full height. 

“I know you wouldn’t make friends with someone you don’t trust. He might be an annoying shit in Potions, and I don’t know what you see in him, but… I trust you.”

“Potter, I’m blushing.” Theo drawled, but there was an edge to his tone that suggested he couldn’t quite believe it. 

“Well, er… thanks, Harry.” Said Longbottom, touching his friend on the shoulder and still looking quite as though he thought all of this sounded too good to be true. 

“And just for the record, I’ve never met a twat bigger than my own dad.” Said Theo, because when had he ever been able to hold a full conversation without talking about how much of a twat his dad was? “I hate him. I couldn’t care for all that Death Eater bollocks, either. And their costumes are stupid.”

Harry nodded, rather pale. “Right.” 

“And also”-

“Theo, stop. You’re digging yourself a hole.” Longbottom, whispered. 

“Right so, yeah. But he might want to hear this one.” Theo stepped forward. “Dumbledore spoke to Blaise and I at the beginning of the year. A few others as well, I think. Whatever you’re thinking about Malfoy, you err…” Theo hesitated, and Draco hoped - nay _prayed - _that in that moment he felt extremely shit about himself because the next sentence he uttered was, “you’re right. He’s a Death Eater. Officially.” 

*

Harry realized a little too late that he was supposed to have acted surprised. Instead, all he could come up with was,

“Oh. Okay.” 

Now it was Neville and Nott’s turns to be confused. 

“Harry, he’s saying you were _ right. _Draco Malfoy _ is a Death Eater._” Neville said slowly, as if Harry had been lobotomised. He damn near felt like it, the amount that had gone on tonight. First Hagrid’s creepy funeral for Aragog, then Slughorn’s heart-to-heart with Harry about his mother, then - well all of Draco and his whole _"I do like you, Harry"_ \- and now… this. He’d felt the effects of the luck potion begin to wear off somewhere around his chat with Draco before their water fight, but now he was well and truly sober. And he sort of wished he wasn’t. The bottles of Firewhiskey clutched in Nott’s arms looked very appealing, actually. 

“Ah,” Harry tried again, injecting more alarm into his tone, “Just as I thought.”

_ Crikey. _He was a shit actor. He tried not to look in Draco’s direction, just knowing he had his head in his hands and was probably considering revealing himself just to distract from Harry’s poor performance. 

“I thought you would have gone bounding off to confront him.” Neville frowned, “I mean, not that long ago you were waiting outside the Forbidden Forest for him for hours” - 

“Okay, Neville”-

“With your silly, freaky map”-

“_Neville” _-

“Probably freezing your arse off”-

“Alright, I get it!” Harry yelled, panicking, because _ oh shit, the map_. The Marauder’s Map Draco knew absolutely nothing about and would incinerate Harry for on the spot if he found out about it. He could hear the cogs turning in Draco’s head already, and he said a small mental prayer for his future self who would have to confront him about this later. 

“Listen, I… I’ll tell Dumbledore.” Harry sighed, “I’m sure he couldn’t give one that you two are out every weekend getting sloshed in the Greenhouses. He probably already knows. So I’ll just… tell him this happened, alright? I need to see him tonight, anyway.” 

Nott grimaced while Neville nodded, still surveying Harry with a little more incredulity than he was comfortable with. 

“Did you really wait for hours for Malfoy outside the forest, Potter?” Nott sniggered, “Bit gay. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. You seem to think everyone is a poof so it would make sense that you’re”- 

Neville shoved a hand over Nott’s mouth. “Ignore him. He has a Neanderthal’s brain. Tragic accident at birth. Well, actually, the birth _ was _ the tragic accident but you get the gist - _ don’t lick my hand!"_

Harry wasn’t listening anymore. He was sure anyone that was paying attention would have noticed all the colour draining from his face and his soul leaving his body because Nott might have been making a cruel joke, but he was bang on the money. Harry _ was _in fact very gay for Draco Malfoy and now that it had been spoken aloud by an outside party - in front of the very subject of his affections himself - Harry felt quite sick with panic. 

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for Neville and Nott to leave after that - although Harry did have to spin a tale about how he’d dropped his glasses in the stream and had to get in it to look for them - but then, once they’d left, shoving each other and laughing like long lost brothers, it was just Harry and Draco left in the Greenhouse. And Harry was very aware of what had just happened and how cold he was now the greenish water had seeped through his clothes and chilled him to his bones. 

“You… can come out now.” Harry said into the silence, which had stretched on for far too long in the wake of the others leaving. 

There was a quiet rustle as the cloak slipped off Draco and he was revealed, standing still and unreadable on the other side of the room. His shirt was still stuck to him, the water turning it semi-transparent, and somehow this was worse than if he’d just been standing there shirtless. It was the suggestion of the subtle lines and angles of his body underneath the clingy fabric that did unspeakable things to Harry’s psyche.

He had to remember not to stare. So he watched the stream instead, willing the heat spreading through his body to remember that the rest of him was freezing cold. 

Draco walked up to Harry with deliberation, handing him the cloak wordlessly. 

“Thanks.” Harry mumbled. 

“Why won’t you look at me, Potter?” 

Harry looked at him. Draco rolled his eyes.

“Alright, point taken.” The hardness in his opalite eyes softened. “But do stop acting so guilty. It’s gauche.” 

_ Was he off the hook? Was Draco not going to ask him about the map at all? Did he just not care? Also… gauche? _

“Listen, I”-

“Oh for Godric’s sake. If we have to go through this let me just do it for the both of us and get it out of the way, alright? Yes, I know what you were implying when you almost said you couldn’t trust Longbottom because Theo’s father is a Death Eater. Yes, I know you instantly realized what you’d said and felt bad about it for my sake - even though really you shouldn’t because, honestly? Death Eaters are exactly the pieces of shit you imagine them to be, me included - but... you know... in a different way. Yes, I was initially a bit… peeved. No, I’m not going to sulk about it. And no, I am not going to have this argument with you.” Draco inhaled, long and deep. “Oh, and before I forget.” He whipped out his wand and spelled them both dry and warm. He smiled on an outbreath. “There. That feels better, doesn’t it?”

Harry gaped at him. 

Draco grimaced. “Close your mouth, Potter, or you’ll start catching flies.” 

“Draco, that wasn’t why I felt guilty.”

“What?”

“That wasn’t why I”-

“Yes, I heard you.” The Slytherin snapped, horribly put out by the looks of it and Harry thought maybe he should have kept his mouth shut and let him have his little moment. “Then _ what_?” 

Harry bit his lip. “You didn’t notice when Neville talked about a... map?” 

Draco’s eyes scanned the room as his memory visibly worked. “Ah, yes. I think I remember. It’s a tad difficult to pin-point exact moments amidst the fever dream that just occurred but… I believe he said: “Your silly, freaky map.” I did wonder about that for a second, but as usual Theo killed the mood with his tasteless jokes.”

Harry gulped. His tasteless _ gay _joke. About Harry. Having a thing for Draco. Ugh. 

“Yeah… that part.” Harry dug around his inside pockets for the map. “I should come clean. I understand if you’ll want to hex me to the moon and back after this. Fuck knows, I deserve it, but at least hear me out before you end my life. I’m showing you this because I trust you.” He handed the parchment to Draco, who stared at its blank pages for a moment, confused, until Harry tapped it with his wand and uttered the words that brought the ink to life. 

He waited with bated breath as Draco stared at the map. Not opening it. Not actively scanning the page. Just… staring, his now dry hair curled at the ends after being damp and almost completely covering his face. 

“Potter, this is insane.” 

“Yeah.”

“And genius.”

“...Yeah.”

“And frankly, quite disgusting.” 

Draco finally met Harry’s eyes, and the flood of relief that washed over him was enough to make his knees wobble.

The glint in Draco’s eyes was all kinds of impressed, gleeful and, yes, horrified. But he didn’t punch Harry. Or hex him with eternal sneezing. Or storm off and leave the room. 

“I… genuinely have no words.” He half-laughed. “You disgust me. Utterly.” 

Harry laughed sheepishly, because his tone implied otherwise and maybe the effects of the potion hadn’t _ completely _worn off yet. 

“Likewise. And also, sorry. For watching you. It’s… a massive invasion of privacy, I know.” 

“It is, and no, I don’t forgive you.” Draco gave Harry a side-eyed smirk. “But at least this solves how you’ve always been able to find me. The mystery’s been driving me round the twist.” 

Then, just as Harry was about to apologize once more, Draco took his hand and began leading him towards the door. 

“Come on,” He said with a laugh and a shake of his head, “The smell of all this Gillyweed is making me nauseous.” 

Harry tried not to grin as he allowed Draco to guide him all the way to the castle by the hand. He tried not to punch every step with a spring and a leap as he tightened his grip on Draco’s hand and he tried not to acknowledge the party happening inside his ribcage as the only comprehensible sentence that his mind would form was _ he’s holding your hand! _Because he wasn’t twelve. And he absolutely was not planning on doing something stupid which would destroy everything they’d worked so hard to build over the past couple of months. It would be a mistake to jeopardize all that - however badly Harry wanted to kiss him. 

And honestly, if nothing else had happened and they’d just ended the night like this - Harry would have been perfectly happy. 

But of course, things could never be so simple, could they? 

“Harry. Draco. I thought I’d find you here.”

Draco dropped Harry’s hand like a stone. They were near the front doors, the warm spill of light visible just ahead, only interrupted by the cut of Dumbledore’s long shadow.

He didn’t look angry. Or upset. Or like he was about to give them detention for running around the grounds after hours holding hands. 

Harry risked a glance at Draco’s face. 

His features were set like marble. Just as white and just as cold. 

“Draco, I’d like a word with you in my office. And then, Harry, if you wouldn’t mind waiting... I believe you’ve got something to give to me?” 

  
  


*

  
  


Draco did not like Dumbledore’s office. In fact, he’d quite like to burn it if he ever got the chance. Aside from the bad memories it was full of, there were also all of those obsequious instruments with no use or purpose. They just made incessant noise. Whirring and clicking and clacking and hissing to no avail. 

“Draco, you seem perturbed.” 

“That’s one way of putting it, sir.” Draco said as he stood opposite the headmaster’s desk, hating how young it made him feel. He squared his shoulders and eyed the Professor levelly. “What did you want me for?” 

“Did you receive a letter from your mother this evening, Draco?” 

Draco made a noise of disgust. “Ugh, of _ course _you’re monitoring our letters. I shouldn’t put anything past you, should I?” 

A crinkle appeared in Dumbledore’s already crinkly brow. 

“No, I have it on authority that Voldemort’s inner circle were informed of a date to attack the castle this summer.”

“Whose authority?” 

Dumbledore paused. “Severus Snape’s.” 

Draco had to laugh. The news came as no surprise. “And you trust him, do you? You think he’s working for you?” 

“Yes.” Dumbledore replied. And Merlin, he was completely serious. Draco’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. 

“You’re mad. You’ve gone senile. He’s basically the Dark Lord’s right hand at this point. He’s not yours. He’s _ his_.” 

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, and as ever, Draco thought about how punchable his face was. 

“What date did your mother give you?” 

“July the first.” Said Draco. “I’m guessing Snape told you something different to throw you off”-

“No. He gave me the same date.” Said Dumbledore. 

Draco shut his mouth, unable to dredge up a retort. Was it possible that Snape really was on their side, and not Voldemort’s? Nearly all of Draco’s rationale pointed to ‘no.’ Then again, an hour ago he wouldn’t have said it were possible that Neville Longbottom and Theodore Nott could ever be friends and he’d been proven very wrong there. So… maybe. But he was still on his guard. 

“He took an Unbreakable Vow to protect me.” 

“On my orders.” Said Dumbledore, trumping Draco once again.

“Bloody he- _ why? _ ” Draco raised his arms in exasperation, _ “Why would he do that?” _

“Because he is loyal to me, Draco. Perhaps that is something you don’t understand”-

“Don’t you dare”-

“But I suspect that maybe now you do.” 

Draco scowled at him, all too aware of his partially unbuttoned shirt and messy hair and bare feet and the burn lingering in his palm from Harry’s hand in his own. But it couldn’t be so obvious, could it? 

“I’ve been thinking…” Draco began, taking a seat opposite Dumbledore without being prompted because quite frankly he didn’t give a shit what the old man thought of him, “that there are a few flaws in this little ‘plan’ of yours, aren’t there? I’ve been trying to make sense of it. Really, I have. But I can’t add up why you would allow me to fix a Cabinet that you _ know _ will allow the Death Eaters directly into your precious little school, all so you can… _ what? _ Let Har- Potter off his leash and fling him on the Dark Lord’s arse when you _ know _that’s exactly what he’ll be expecting? It’s starting to make me think you’re not on the side you say you are, sir.” 

Dumbledore smiled much to Draco’s irritation, his piercing blue eyes glistening like lasers. Not in the way Harry’s did. Harry’s were much nicer and much less disconcerting. 

“Very deductive, Draco. But no, I do not plan to unleash Harry on Voldemort. I plan to die.” 

Draco blinked. Surely he hadn’t heard him right. 

“You…”

“Plan to die, Draco, yes. And Harry must not know.” Dumbledore paced the length of his desk and rounded the stairs to Fawkes’ perch where the bird sat sleeping, his head curled under a brilliant scarlet wing. Dumbledore ran a charred, black finger gently along his back feathers. 

Draco’s pulse raced, because this was _ not _a plan. 

“This is a suicide mission.” He said, hushed with disbelief and horror, “You’re fucking kidding me.” 

“I am not.” Dumbledore sighed. “I tasked Severus to take the Unbreakable Vow to protect you so that _ you _would not have to be the one to do it, Draco. Because you won’t. You never would have.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but the sour bitter truth of it rose like bile, and the words stuck in his throat. 

“My life is coming to its end. I would like it to be on my terms. And I would like that in doing so, it also saves another’s life.”

Draco shook his head, dread and rage and every emotion he’d been successfully suppressing for the past few weeks rearing their ugly heads. 

“Who could this possibly save?” 

Dumbledore simply looked at him, waiting for the answer to drop on Draco’s head. And it did. It hit him like a bludger, because unfortunately for Draco he was too smart for the truth of it to fly over his head. 

He stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. “No!” He protested, his pulse racing, “No this will _ not _ save me! Or anyone! This is - it’s bloody stupid and we should call it off! Now!” 

“What do you think the Dark Lord will do when he discovers you couldn’t do it, Draco? What will he do when they get here and realize you have switched sides? And that you’re hiding a terrible secret underneath all of that? You think he will let you go, or let you off lightly? He will not only kill you, Draco, but he will destroy you. He will destroy your family and your name and your life.” Dumbledore watched the words sink in, “Severus will take your place at the last moment. He will exempt you from blame and he will be able to say he stole your task at the last moment. Do you think Voldemort cares who ends my life, Draco? He set you this mission as a test of your loyalty, and you have failed. And thank the gods for it. I would not have it any other way. But I do not want him to discover it.” 

Draco had never been so angry. He’d never quite experienced rage like this before. His hands shook by his sides. He felt as if his body were not his own and it was a good thing he’d transformed earlier or he might have actually fulfilled his wish of setting Dumbledore’s office on fire. 

“You sanctimonious, manipulative bastard. I know exactly what you’re doing.” Draco seethed, so crippled with fury that he couldn’t even find his voice enough to shout. “You waited this long to tell me the real plan on purpose. You waited until I - until I _cared_. You - I hate you. I’ve never hated anyone this much. Not even the Dark Lord. Not even…” He trailed off, Dumbledore’s face swimming in front of him as his eyes filled with tears. He let them fall, because he didn’t give a single fuck if he saw it anymore. Because he was Dumbledore’s puppet for as long as he cared too much about Harry to tell him that Dumbledore would die _ because of him_. Harry would never ever forgive him. 

And the old bastard just stood there, hands clasped loosely in front of him and face full of sorrow as if he actually gave a shit about Draco’s feelings. 

“I am sorry, Draco”-

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY YOU’RE SORRY!” Draco lashed out, grabbing the nearest of Dumbledore’s irritating useless instruments and flinging it across the room where it smashed terrifically against a glass bookcase which, satisfyingly, also smashed to pieces. Dumbledore didn’t even blink. “IF YOU WERE REALLY SORRY YOU’D LET THIS FUCKING END!” The first one wasn’t enough. Draco hurled another thing - a spherical shaped thing that span and whirred - at one of the paintings on the opposite wall. Its unfortunate occupant grumbled and stuck his fingers in his ears. 

Dumbledore surveyed the damage with all the calm of a man admiring a bouquet of flowers. Psychopath.

“Harry destroyed my office like this last year after Sirius died.” 

“You mean after he was _murdered_ _by my aunt._” Draco bit back, starting to be able to feel his feet again. The mere mention of Harry’s name was enough to drag him out of his fervour of rage. A little bit, anyway. He still wanted to burn everything. 

“This anger, Draco, it comes from love. I need you to recognize it. I need you to hold onto it. I need you to _ stay strong _and see this through to the end. Because soon, love will be the only thing you have, do you understand me?”

If Dumbledore thought he’d won - if he thought Draco would leave this office and keep this secret from Harry, suffering in silence until the first of July when he’d have to stand there and watch him die to save his life, he was right. No one, not even the Dark Lord could have come up with a plan this sadistic and this effective. 

And Draco hated him for it. He’d hate him until his last breath.

But never as much as he would hate himself. 

  
  



	16. Last Flight

“Draco, would you just _ tell me _what happened”-

“No. Piss off, Potter. You’re distracting me.”

Harry slammed his Potions book shut. He’d long since given up on completing homework when he came to watch Draco fiddle around with the Cabinet. There was no point in pretending he was working anymore, but the books were a good shield to hide behind in case Draco should turn around and catch him looking. But lately, Draco had been about as much company as a depressed Flobberworm. He didn’t walk, he marched. With attitude. He didn’t talk, he grumbled. His smiles had been replaced with scowls and Harry mourned the loss of a somewhat sunny Draco whose existence seemed to have vanished into thin air. 

Harry wasn’t an idiot. He _ knew _something had happened in Dumbledore’s office the night he’d retrieved Slughorn’s memory because when Draco had emerged, white as a sheet and his lips fused into a thin line, he’d barrelled straight past Harry to “go to bed.” Though Harry doubted he’d got much sleep by the sight of him the next day, ghost-like, dark eyed and barely responsive.

He’d asked Dumbledore what had put him in such a bad mood, but all he’d received in response was a sad little smile and a vague:

_ “These are uncertain times, Harry. And as each day passes we each feel more uncertain ourselves.” _Which had frustrated Harry no end, because that meant nothing really, did it? It certainly didn’t explain Draco’s dramatic shift in attitude. 

But more than anything, Harry was just sad. 

He missed laughing with Draco. He missed waking up every morning wondering what conversations they’d have later instead of where on the scale of pissed off Draco would be. It was almost June, and Harry was beginning to lose hope that things would ever go back to the way they were. 

Draco had already turned his back on him again, the line of his spine rigid beneath his crisp, white shirt as he raised his wand to mutter more mysterious spells into the Cabinet’s core. At the very least, the dark object itself was brighter and more responsive than ever. Draco didn’t have to say anything for Harry to know it was almost fixed. 

And what they’d do when it was fixed? Well… he was starting to think all of this might end for good. Maybe he and Draco wouldn’t be friends after all, let alone anything more. 

Harry sighed. “Do you want me to leave?” He asked deliberately, unsure what answer he was really looking for. 

Draco paused, only the white-knuckled grip on his wand giving away any clue of emotion. 

“Do as you wish, Harry.” 

By now, Harry had learnt Draco’s code word for ‘_yes, I’m being a bitch but I do actually want you to stay’, _but he was so fed up with his obtuse behaviour that he began to pack up his stuff anyway. There were still a few more hours of light left in the day. It would be a shame to waste them stuck in here wondering if he was no more than an annoying voice in Draco’s ear. 

“Right. See you tomorrow then, if you’re up for it.” Harry said breezily, swiping his bag off the moth-eaten chair beside him and making for the door. 

“I want to ask you a question.” Draco said suddenly, and Harry’s heart gave a tiny stutter, fleetingly hoping for the impossible. He stopped, turning to find Draco watching him, features screwed up in fierce thought. 

“Yeah?” Harry prompted, trying not to sound too bothered. 

“What do you think will happen? When the Death Eaters come through that thing?” He tipped his head in the direction of the Cabinet. 

Harry half-shrugged. “Chaos, I s’pose.” 

Draco’s furrowed brow became more furrowed. “And you’re alright with that?” 

“If it helps us win... I… yeah?” 

“Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.” Draco commented quietly. 

“Dumbledore will know what to do, though, when the time comes.” Said Harry. “He wouldn’t have you doing all this otherwise, would he?” 

Draco fiddled with his wand, his foot tapping erratically against the floor. He was even chewing his lip, which was never a good sign. 

Harry huffed. “I’m sorry, are you trying to accuse me of something? Because I can’t tell what you’re getting at.” 

Draco stared for a second longer before his expression smoothed out entirely, and his emotions became trapped behind the same marble prison.

“No. It was just a passing thought.” He turned on his heel, hands loose by his sides. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

Harry couldn’t dredge up the will to feel angry at Draco’s coldness toward him. He was frustrated and tired and sad, but… he cared about the stupid sod too much. He wanted to help, but well… if Harry had learnt anything in his years of helping people, it was that they had to actually want to be helped. Draco didn’t want his help anymore. Harry couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

But it wasn’t exactly as if Draco had _ done _anything to hurt him. He’d done nothing at all. And that was exactly the problem. 

Hand on the doorknob, he turned one last time in the hopes Draco would be looking back at him. He wasn’t. 

“Draco, don’t be afraid to tell me what’s up, alright?” He said into the silence. Fruitlessly, probably. “You don’t have to go through this shit alone. Not anymore.” 

If Draco heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. 

“Goodnight, Draco.” 

Things stayed much the same over the next week. Harry kept trying to feel angry towards him. He kept trying to remember how to shout at Draco - how to antagonize him into a fight that would, ultimately, reveal whatever the hell had him so riled up. But this was different. Whatever had cut Draco had cut him deep. Nevertheless, every night before Harry left he would say something like _ “You know you can talk to me.” _ Or _ “Don’t suffer in silence.” _ And he always finished with a _ “Goodnight, Draco.” _

Draco never told him to stop, but he didn’t respond either.

It seemed hopeless. On top of it all, Harry was losing faith in his ability to hold his Patronus’ form. More often than not, the silver blob that emerged from his wand flapped around his head before despair set in and it vanished entirely. Sometimes Harry’s stag appeared, usually only for a moment or two, but he was beginning to wonder why he was so attached to it to begin with. Of course there was the fact that his stag was a true legacy of his father - one of the three left beside the cloak and the map, and Harry had always taken enormous pride in that fact. He was Prongs’ son through and through and here was the proof. But he’d begun to question ever since reading Cecelia Warner’s memoirs whether fighting this was wise. He didn’t want to _ kill _ his Patronus, no matter what form it took. And as much as Harry’s chest tweaked with guilt at the thought, did he _ really _ want to become a carbon copy of his dad? He’d seen his dad in Snape’s memories - seen him bullying the younger Potion’s master and, worst of all, _ enjoying it_; the very traits he’d loathed Draco for in the beginning. Somehow, idolizing his dad the same way he had since he was eleven felt wrong after seeing that. He knew it wasn’t so simple, though. He knew his dad was a ‘good man’ or whatever. But Harry had never known him. He was just a mish-mash of other people’s memories in his mind - a collage of legacies and stories and infamousies that Harry would never have anything to do with, however much he longed for it. 

He loved his stag, yes, but he couldn’t let it dictate his magic... or his feelings.

Besides, he’d been far more worried lately about what to do with Draco. 

“What do I do about Draco?”

He was wondering when he’d cave. He hadn’t known how badly he needed to say it out loud until the question left his mouth, and he instantly regretted it.

All of his friends looked at him. Well, the few that could stand him on nights like this when he retreated into himself and became about as responsive as a rock cake. And probably just as unpalatable. As aware of Harry was that he was doing it, he couldn’t help it either. 

The nights were becoming longer, and at this time many students were gathered near the lake for the sunset. Ginny and Ron’s shared orange heads of hair looked like they were on fire in the wash of the day’s last, glorious rays. 

Ginny and Hermione exchanged a long, meaningful look. Ron sighed heavily. Harry waited for the snickers. To his surprise, they didn’t come. The silence was even more awkward. 

“If you’re going to make fun of me…” Harry began, picking blades of grass one by one to avoid looking at any of them. 

“Is he still in his funk, then?” Ginny chimed, throwing a daisy head at him. 

Harry gave a sullen shrug. 

“Oh for Pete’s sake, Harry, if you’re going to ask for our advice at least say something when one of us asks you about it.” Hermione told him tiredly. 

Harry scowled. Perhaps harder than he’d meant to.

“Blimey, you’re even turning into him.” Said Ron, half-joking. The others laughed. Harry did not. 

He flopped back onto the grass, trying to find favour with the golden clouds languidly sloping across the sky instead. 

“Talk to him?” Ginny suggested. 

“Tried that.”

“Engage with the mood he’s putting out. You know… listen to the room.”

“Hermione - _ what?” _

“Hit him on the head. Really hard. Or better yet”-

Harry sat up sharply, wishing he had an ounce of the energy they had to be able to joke about this stuff. 

“I knew this was a bad idea.”

“We’re only trying to help.” Said Ginny hotly. 

“Not because I think you lot are useless, but because _ no one _would know what to do, alright?” Harry snapped back. “He’s a fucking enigma. I can’t stand him at the moment.”

They exchanged more cryptic glances. 

“Stop going to see him, then.” Said Ron, shrugging. 

Harry’s stomach did an unhappy flip. “What…? No, I…”

“It’s the only solution left.” Hermione told him in a manner that was infuriatingly rational. “It’s not as if you’re helping him with classes anymore, right? And if all of it is making you _ this _unhappy…”

“She’s right.” Said Ginny - the last person who Harry hoped might take his side. “You’re a sulky little bastard at the moment, no offence.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort before closing it again. 

“I know this year has been…” 

“Bloody weird.” Ron interjected.

“Yes, Ron.” Hermione huffed. “It has been... odd. But maybe…” Her expression became cautious. “Maybe whatever you two were, um, doing. Maybe it’s ended?” 

No one was meeting Harry’s eye. 

“And what _ exactly _is it you think we were ‘doing’, Hermione?” Asked Harry, clipped, while Ginny stuffed her fist in her mouth. 

A dark flush tinted Hermione’s cheeks. “Nothing!” She protested, “Stop being so defensive! I’m just saying - it was an unlikely alliance to begin with and maybe it’s run its course!” 

Harry hated how unhappily the idea sat with him. He hated how just the notion of it roiled in his stomach and made his breath quicken with panic. 

He shook his head. “No. It isn’t. There’s just something he isn’t telling me.” 

“Pretty sure there’s _ a lot _he isn’t telling you, mate.” Ron remarked with feeling. Hermione gave him a tight-lipped glare that Harry didn’t miss. 

“Meaning?” 

“Meaning,” Ron stammered, mirroring Hermione’s trepidation from seconds ago, “I don’t think any of us are ever gonna be able to figure him out, y’know? I mean… the bloke can turn into a Dragon, Harry. That’s got to come with a bit of baggage.” 

Harry snorted, digging up a whole tuft of grass by its roots. “You can say that again.” He threw the grass in the air without really thinking, and pellets of soil rained down on them.

There was a chorus of _ “Harry!” - “Harry, _ why?! _ ” _and then he was laughing - if just for a moment.

It made the others relax a little at least, which was worth it. Even if there were bits of soil in his hair now. 

“I’m sorry.” Harry said at length, a smile tugging his face in a way he’d become unfamilar with recently. “And thank you. For what it’s worth… I’m glad I can talk to you guys about this stuff - I mean - it’s weird. Never would have imagined us having this conversation six months ago.” 

“Aww, want us to plait your hair too?” Ginny giggled.

“Piss off.” 

“Not on your life, Potter.” 

Ron and Hermione peeled off a few minutes later, leaving Ginny and Harry alone. Harry remembered all those months ago when Ron had tried to suggest that he _ liked _her. He grimaced, and Ginny caught him, raising a brow. 

“There something in my teeth or what?” 

Harry laughed. “No. You’re good.” 

She sighed, leaning back into the grass, her hair getting tangled with the bits of soil Harry had flicked everywhere. She didn’t seem to care though.

“Can you feel it too?” She asked.

“What?” 

She paused, frowning. “That sense of… alarm. I don’t know how to describe it. Just this sort of dread. It’s on everyone’s faces. Just a bit.”

Harry knew exactly what she meant. The atmosphere at Hogwarts wasn’t the zaney haven he remembered from his earlier years. Ever since Cedric’s death almost two years ago, the dark had begun to shred the edges of the rose tinted dreamworld it had been before. Suddenly, people could die, and as soon as he’d realized that, well… suddenly all of them could die. 

“Yeah.” He replied, swallowing hard. “It gets worse every day.” 

“I think this is it, you know.” She said, all traces of playful humour gone from her face. And it was weird, because Harry had always seen her as ‘Ron’s little sister.’ But there was almost none of that left about her; that kind of blissful ignorance that comes from being a child. Harry often forgot that she’d been right there when Sirius had been killed. It felt so personal to him that he found himself surprised whenever anyone else talked about it. 

“What’s _ it_?” He asked, already knowing what she was going to say.

“The last days of this. Peace.” She replied, sitting up and gazing off at the sun, her eyes squinting at the last rays. “I dunno. It just feels like the quiet before a storm.” She turned to him. “You’ve got to hold onto people, Harry. Don’t push anyone away, alright?”

He frowned. “I would never”-

“I know you’re gonna run off at some point.” Ginny interrupted, not accusingly, but… _ knowingly_. It bothered Harry - how well she could cut right to the point. No sugarcoating whatsoever. “It’s all Hermione and Ron worry about, you know. This whole thing with Malfoy has shaken them up. They didn’t see it coming. None of us did.” 

“It’s not as if I didn’t tell them what I was doing.” 

Ginny huffed a tiny laugh, giving him a small, sad smile. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

He threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “See _ what_?” 

She tilted her head, her warm eyes regarding him closely. “You’ve changed. He’s changed you, I reckon.” He began to protest, but she shook her head. “I’m not trying to insult you, Harry. It’s just true. You’re… quieter somehow. I think it bothers them, but I don’t mind.” She shrugged. “You’re not as stupid.”

Harry snorted. “Right. Thanks.” 

“You know what I mean.” She laughed, “You’ve always been a bit pigheaded. But you’re less stupid about it now.” 

“I’m struggling to find the compliment, Ginny.” 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “The last thing you need is more compliments, mate. Your head might explode.” 

“You’ve changed, too.” Harry countered, because it was the truth. And he wanted to deflect the angle of the conversation. He wasn’t expecting her to blush, though - to turn her gaze downward and tuck her hair behind her ear. 

“Oh… you think?” 

For the briefest second Harry was worried she thought he was… _ coming onto her _or something. But the way she smiled; it was to herself, rather than to him. It was an expression he thought he recognized because once or twice he’d caught on himself. Usually after an evening in the Room of Requirement. Before things had gone sour, anyway. 

“Uhh, Ginny?” He prompted playfully, because the expression on her face could not have been more telling. She seemed to remember him and cleared her throat. 

“Yes?” She saw his face. “Oh, shut up. It’s none of your business… _ definitely _ none of your business.” 

“They’d better be good enough for you, whoever they are.”

She smirked. “Oh, you’d _ hate _him.”

“As long as you don’t say McLaggan, I don’t care.”

Ginny threw her head back and barked out a laugh. Then a snort. Their laughter died, and they turned to watch the sunset in comfortable silence. 

Despite the niggling lump of unease lodged in Harry’s chest every time he thought about how to get Draco to talk to him again, he felt closer to his friends than he had in weeks. He’d missed talking to them properly. He missed being happy. He missed a time before he’d harboured an insane crush on a stupid, sturbborn, gorgeous Slytherin, but even so… he couldn’t imagine himself without him anymore. And it was that - _ that right there - _why he couldn’t let what they had - whatever it was - just end. He’d changed too much. He’d seen too much, realised too much. Not just about Draco, but himself, too. 

He’d take the pain of Draco not talking to him, of no one knowing how he really felt - fuck he’d even take the pain of _ rejection _ \- rather than going back to the bubble of ignorance he’d existed inside before. Because he didn’t want to live in a world where Slytherin equalled bad (or if not bad, then untrustworthy) and Gryffindor equalled saviour anymore. He didn’t want to live in a world where he didn’t know who Draco really was. 

By the time Harry had run back to the Room of Requirement to tell him this - to argue it out until they were at least talking again - Draco had gone. The sun had set, leaving the room dark and cold and barren, and the Cabinet’s presence felt all the more foreboding for it - a solid, soulless shadowy square in the middle of the chamber, sucking up the rest of the light like a black hole. 

It was a curious thing, Harry thought, and when he looked at it he truly understood the meaning of the phrase ‘Dark Object.’ There was hardly any light in the room to begin with, but nonetheless the Cabinet cast a shadow that seemed beyond reason. It was repulsive yet still, perversely, Harry felt himself drawn to it. 

His heartbeat was loud in his ears as he closed his hand around the Cabinet’s handle - _ when had he got this close? _\- and pulled the door open.

There was a _ click_, and then all the air around Harry was suctioned into the empty chamber, yanking him closer. 

He could not tear his eyes away from the darkness inside. He couldn’t fathom it - couldn’t _ see _ it - but as wholly and undoubtedly an entity of _ Nothing _ as it was, the silence within it seemed to roar. No... the roar was inside his head, and there was nothing he could do to quieten it. It was speaking to him - words that made no sense if spoken, but travelling straight to the painful tug in his chest. 

The door didn’t seem to want to shut, but he wasn’t sure he was really pulling. His hands and feet tingled, willing him to make the leap into the abyss. There was a wind teasing him from within it, gently beckoning him closer and closer.

Harry stared into the void, transfixed, and the void stared back. 

He began to take a step.

“Harry, what the _ fuck” _-

Something grasped Harry by the back of his collar, throwing him backwards onto the cold stone tiles as the Cabinet was slammed shut.

Seconds later, he was enveloped by the warm press of another body thrown against him, and Draco’s voice in his ear whispering, over and over: “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay, Harry.”

Harry thought, for a moment, that he must be dreaming. 

Until he realized he was crying. 

He buried his face into Draco’s shoulder, overwhelmed by shock and distress for reasons he couldn’t begin to explain. He had no control over the sobs that heaved through his chest or the tears that wouldn’t stop, blurring his vision every time he tried to open his eyes. 

And Draco was _ here_. _ Holding _him. 

“What the - what was - what was that?” Harry gasped, desperately trying to regain control. His chest felt compressed. As though his heart had been forcibly removed and something else had been stuffed haphazardly in its place. 

“Broken magic.” Draco replied carefully, his hold on Harry loosening as he hauled in deep, shaky breaths. “It’s magic that’s had its essence taken away from it. It’s craving a… a soul. Th-that’s a rudimentary explanation but it’s - yeah. That’s what it was.” He spoke fast and drew away from Harry, holding him at arm’s length by his shoulders, more expression etched onto his features than Harry had seen in weeks. 

“You dickhead.” Draco chastened, the concern etched into his brow contradicting the insult. “Why did you have to go and open it you bloody idiot?” 

Harry swiped his hand across his face, bowing his head. He didn’t want Draco to see him crying. He felt pathetic, and he still couldn’t understand what had happened to him.

He shook his head. “I dunno. It felt like it wanted me to.”

“Of course it did! It could have killed you.”

“I didn’t know”-

“I know.” Draco interrupted, dropping his hands from Harry’s shoulders, but not quite letting go of him. Instead, he cradled Harry’s wrists between his fingers as he let out a long sigh. Maybe he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, but the action was so tender, so… _ not _ what Harry had been expecting, that he instantly began to feel… not _ better _but certainly more like himself, the zing of nerves and rattling acknowledgement of his feelings for Draco. 

“It’s my fault.” He continued, oblivious to Harry’s thudding heart, “I should have told you what I was doing. You can’t resist magic like that if you don’t know it’s there in the first place.” 

Harry didn’t dare to move. He didn’t want Draco to let go of him. Didn’t think he could stand it if he did, because it had been so long since they’d touched and _ fuck_, Harry had been severely missing it. More than he’d known. 

“But why _ is _it like that? I thought you said it was nearly fixed.”

“It is.” Draco told him as he threw the Cabinet a dark look, “But I’m keeping the core separate from the body until it's perfect. Essentially, it’s been... split into two. Magic like that is painful. It’s complicated and it… well, it shouldn’t be done. I wouldn’t have if there was a better way.” He sounded so ashamed of himself, like he’d committed an irredeemable crime. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.” Said Harry with force. “I shouldn’t have messed about with it, I… I don’t know what I was doing.” 

“It felt like it was going to promise you something, didn’t it?” Draco asked him quietly. “Something you thought you could never have?” 

Harry’s breath hitched in his throat. Because… that was exactly it. The feeling in his chest was exactly how he’d felt the moment Sirius had died. The dread and the denial and longing and guilt all at once, all over again, because it was as if the Cabinet was saying it could give him back. As if Sirius was _ in _ there, somewhere, amidst the roar of _ nothingness _in the void and Harry could reach in and take him if he wanted, and the moment Draco had yanked him back, the illusion was broken. 

“It’s not fair.” Draco said, as though reading his thoughts. “There’s nothing like it. And it shouldn’t exist.”

They both looked at the Cabinet at once, and Harry thought he could still hear the roar of the abyss, stifled only by a few centimetres of flimsy black wood. 

“Draco, how many times have you looked inside that thing? While it’s been like this, I mean?” He heard himself ask, regretting it when Draco pulled away. His hands slid from Harry’s slowly, leaving them cold as he stood, his back turned to him. 

For a moment Harry was terrified that Draco was going to tell him to leave again - that this had been a single, brief window of vulnerability and the cold, hard mask of indifference would return. 

But Draco spoke, and even though his tone was quiet and grim, Harry was still relieved to hear he wasn’t dismissing him. 

“Every day, now.” He paced closer to it, resting a palm against the icy wood almost affectionately. “But there’s nothing it can show me that I won’t be expecting. It can’t shock me.”

“But it can still hurt you.” Harry replied, roughly standing too. He wasn’t going to sit on the floor, his face wet with tears, and let Draco go off on one again. 

Still not facing him, Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. And it was that little dismissive shrug that flicked a switch inside Harry. 

“Do you know what I find fucking infuriating?” He suddenly spat, causing Draco to turn and blink at him, wide-eyed. “People always call me a martyr, right? Whenever _ The Prophet _ wants to drag me through the mud that’s one of the top insults they go to. _ Oh, that Harry Potter, such a martyr. _ You know what? They’ve never met _ you_, Draco. I know you love to think you’re this self-preserving pillar of money and aristocracy - and - and _ sarcasm _or whatever, but you’re more of a martyr than I’ll ever bloody be.” 

Harry watched, with some satisfaction, the flicker of mortal offense that passed across Draco’s features.

“Excuse me”- he began, lifting his index finger in a very _ Draco _fashion. 

“You can try to deny it,” Said Harry, standing taller, “but it’s true. You don’t _ have _ to look into the Cabinet, Draco. Or even if you did have to, you don’t _ have _ to do it alone. But here you are, all ‘_w__oe is me’ _ even though _ I _ could have been here for you all along. I offered to help. Every single night I come in here, even though I know you’d rather be alone or - or maybe you don’t, I dunno - and I _ embarrass _ myself by thinking ‘oh, maybe tonight he’ll stop being such a git for a change and just open up a bit’. It drives me round the twist, to be honest.” 

“I got distracted.” Draco spit back, taking a step towards Harry. “I - I have some important work to do and I”-

“That’s bullshit, Draco. You know it is. If you don’t want me here, say so. But don’t try to pretend you’re working harder than ever before because I’ve seen what it looks like when you’re really working and it isn’t this unresponsive, weird shit you’ve got going on.” 

Draco’s expression was one of absolute fury and shock which, in Harry’s books, was a victory - it was the most he’d got out of him in ages. 

“Draco, it scares me.” Harry continued, because he couldn’t be angry. He wasn’t _ really _angry because he knew that for whatever reason Draco had been off with him, it was because something was hurting him. He just needed him to know that he cared. 

“It scares you?” Draco echoed. He wasn’t scathing or derisive. In fact, the fury vanished off his features almost entirely and he was staring at Harry with open panic. “Why?” 

“Because I know something happened and I know it’s fucked you up. But the less you tell me, the more I’m going to start imagining the worst and I really don’t want to do that. I know something is coming. I know we can’t win this in one night. I’m not stupid.” As he spoke, he remembered what Ginny had said, and he knew how important it was not to say the wrong thing. He couldn’t go into the war knowing he and Draco had never sorted this out. Whatever ‘this’ was. 

“But whatever it is,” Harry continued, in answer to his own thoughts, “I’m not gonna lose my shit or anything, alright? If you hurt someone by mistake or - or - I dunno, we can work it out!” 

The room was still, and Draco’s expression tightened. 

“I… didn’t hurt anyone.” He said after a beat of silence. “I haven’t _ done _anything, I…” He trailed off, distressed. 

Harry took a tentative step closer. And if he didn’t think Draco would run away or hex him, he would have taken both his hands in his. He didn’t know how else to show him that it didn’t matter anymore. Who they were - whoever they’d been before knowing each other - it didn’t matter to Harry anymore. 

Draco met Harry’s eyes, full of despair. “I can’t tell you.” He said at last. Harry wanted to shake him, wanted to _ throw _something, and he had to force himself to take deep breaths.

“Why the hell _ not_?_” _ He asked at length, tired of giving him so many opportunities and getting nothing back. 

But Draco, if anything, looked even more anguished than before. 

“I want to.” He told Harry, pained. “Believe me, I really, _ really _want to, but” - he swallowed thickly. 

“What? You’re not allowed, or something?” 

Draco didn’t answer, his expression frozen in torment. 

“Is it Voldemort? Is he making you do something? Because we can _ fight _it! We can tell Dumbledore and”-

“No!” Draco yelled. “It isn’t… it isn’t him! You really think I would go back after - ?” He stopped, closing his eyes for a second and drawing in a deep inhale. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

“So did I.” Said Harry sharply. “And I’m trying here. I really, really am.” 

“Please don’t go.” Draco rushed out in a breath. “I mean it, I - I’m not doing this on purpose. I wanted to tell you. I just can’t. I fucking _ can’t, _alright?” 

No, it wasn’t alright. Not in the least. But by the way he spoke, begging Harry - the fear lacing every thread in his words - it made him realize this might be bigger than the both of them. It made him think all this time he’d been scared of Draco drifting away, when all along perhaps Draco had been more scared of Harry leaving _ him_.

So, reluctantly, he nodded.

Some of the tension in Draco’s shoulders eased, and Harry couldn’t help but feel at least partially responsible for making him so wound up in the first place. 

He took Draco in properly for the first time that night, the sight of him, and realized he was wearing a set of black, silk pyjamas, his usually fairly neat hair falling in dishevelled wisps about his pale face. 

“Draco, are you… _ sleeping _in here?” 

The question hardly needed an answer, and the rosy tinge that flushed Draco’s face confirmed it. He averted his gaze from Harry’s. 

“I was _ trying _to.” He bit back, Harry suspected, in a poor attempt to cover his embarrassment. 

After the intensity of their conversation, watching Draco standing there in bare feet and pyjamas, an unmistakable pout accompanying his frown, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Merlin, Draco. You are bloody unbelievable.” 

His ‘bed’ was made of two old, moth eaten sofas smushed together, blankets piled on top. Harry resisted the urge to laugh at the sight of Draco’s clothes folded neatly on the chair opposite. It seemed such an absurd thing to do amongst the mess that surrounded him, but one look at Draco stood there, sheepish in his pyjamas, and Harry realized he couldn’t _ be _ any other way. It made him smile in spite of himself, and he saw the look Draco threw him. 

“Why don’t you just…” Harry began.

“Go back?” 

Draco sighed at Harry’s answering expression of _ ‘explain?’ _

“I tried to have a conversation with Blaise and Theo.” 

Harry’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “You did?”

Draco nodded grimly. “Didn’t go well.” He wouldn’t elaborate, and Harry was loath to ask what had gone wrong. “Don’t worry, I - I go back sometimes. I’m not living here.” He continued.

“You’d better,” Said Harry, “This place can’t be good for you.” 

Draco mumbled something that sounded like _ ‘least of my worries’ _before flopping down onto his makeshift sleep pile with a huff. Harry lingered awkwardly closeby. 

“Well, I suppose I’ll just, um…” He pointed to the door, “...leave you to it.”

Draco shot up, his expression panicked. “Wait. Don’t.” 

Harry stopped, his mouth going dry. 

“You could... sleep with me?” 

Harry stared at him, mouth agape because he could not believe what he had just heard. Had he heard it? Or maybe he really had stepped inside the Cabinet and now he was in an alternate dimension where his deepest desires were about to come true. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to be too sorry about it.

But then Draco paled, “I meant - no. _ Merlin,_ no, I meant”-

Harry could not prevent the bubble of laughter that followed as Draco fumbled in embarrassment.

“I know what you meant. And I… suppose I could.” He could feel the heat rising to his own face as he tried not to imagine another, steamier context in which Draco could have uttered such a request. It was unthinkable. Yet here he was, thinking about it.

He shook his head, because Draco’s eyes were on him - dark and sort of glittering in the gloom. 

Harry’s back pocket burned. He sucked in a deep breath, much to Draco’s confusion, and withdrew the fake Galleon from his pocket, rubbing it until it cooled down.

Draco blinked. 

“It’s got a _ Protean _charm on it.” Harry explained, shoving the coin back in his pocket where he habitually kept it, and usually forgot about it. He, Ron and Hermione hadn’t exactly needed them recently after all. “We used them last year to communicate with each other. You know, when you and your snitch squad were trying to rat us out to Umbridge.”

Draco rolled his eyes, cheekbones blushing mild pink. “A _ Protean _charm. Huh. Wonder who thought of that one.” He drawled. “So, what do your little army want now?” 

If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say Draco sounded jealous. 

“It’s just Ron and Hermione checking I’m not, you know, getting myself in trouble or something. I’m usually back in the common room before now.” 

“You don’t have to stay, Harry. I’m not trying to coddle you. And if it was coddling you needed I’m sure Granger and Weasley could do a much better job of it than me.” Most of the usual loftiness had returned to Draco’s voice by now. It was more comforting than anything else he’d said or done so far. Harry couldn’t say he’d mind if Draco decided to hold his hands again, though. _ Bloody hell_, he chided himself, banishing the thoughts - they were doing nothing to cool his reddening face. 

“I know I don’t _ have to._” Harry argued, “You’re the one who asked me to stay.” 

Draco’s mouth twisted in defeat. “Well. As long as you’re not staying because you feel sorry for me.” 

“I’ve never felt sorry for you, Draco. You’re a brat.” 

For some reason, this made Draco crack a smirk, and he stretched out on his rubbish little bed like it was a Chaise Longue and he was wearing fine robes instead of pyjamas. Even so, the loose silk draped over his slim frame with a certain allure that displaced Harry. For the look he was giving him, the smug bastard probably _ knew _what it was doing to him. He flexed his bare feet and yawned. 

“Hmm. Maybe I am. But you’re pigheaded.”

“Huh. Ginny called me that before.” 

Harry shucked off his outer robe, throwing it over an upturned chair as he glanced around the dim space for something soft to lie on. He’d slept in a cupboard for his entire childhood so he wasn’t picky, but it would be nice not to make friends with the cold, hard floor. He didn’t even notice that Draco was staring at him very oddly indeed. 

“What?”

Draco blinked, and angled his face carefully towards the high ceiling, his hands folded atop his abdomen as he lay there, apparently attempting his best impression of a corpse.

“Nothing.”

*

Of course. The other Weasley. Draco had almost forgotten about her. 

Almost, but never quite (it would be virtually impossible to forget the hex she’d marred him with last year… Merlin, just remembering it made Draco’s skin crawl). 

Fuck knows he’d _ tried _to forget about her over the past few months. It wasn’t exactly as if Harry mentioned her much but now, for some reason, just hearing him reference her so casually…

An ache clawed inside Draco’s stomach and chest. It hounded him, yearning to _ know. I __don’t want to know_, he tried to tell it. _ I don’t want to know what Harry Potter and his poster girl Gryffindor girlfriend get up to_. 

_ But you don’t know if she’s his girlfriend._ It replied, stubborn. 

Draco set his jaw in response, counting the cobwebs forming bridges between the arching beams webbing across the high ceiling. 

He didn’t even realize Harry was speaking to him. 

“...even know why you didn’t just transfigure it. Would have taken you all of five seconds.”

Draco turned his head to the sound of Harry’s rambling. 

He’d transfigured a few of the strewn cushions into a rather wobbly looking mattress alongside Draco’s sofa-bed. 

“Pardon?” He asked, trying to appear as though he hadn’t desperately been trying not to imagine the horrid heterosexual activities he and Ginerva Weasley may or may not get up to in their spare time.

“I was talking about the moth-eaten thing you're sleeping on.” Said Harry, none the wiser. Thank fuck. “Why didn’t you just transfigure it into a bed if you were planning on sleeping here so much?”

Draco rolled his eyes sky-ward. “I told you why. It isn’t permanent. It would have felt silly, setting it up like - like weekend accommodation or something.” 

“You don’t think it’s sillier to hunch up on some shitty, dusty pillows?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. You just won’t admit it.” 

“To be honest I couldn’t care less, you loaf.”

Harry’s expression broke into one of mocking amusement. “Loaf?”

Drat. Now Draco would have to pretend he hadn’t just tried to turn bread into an insult for lack of anything better to say in the midst of his internal panic. The only thing his mind wanted to focus on was Ginny Weasley - in particular, it wanted to focus on the best way to get her _ away _from Harry. How was he supposed to come up with good insults at the same time? 

“Yes, idiot.” He bullshitted instead. “The term for someone so bloody dense that they can’t take what they’re hearing at face value.” 

“That makes no sense.”

He was right. It didn’t. 

“I wish my vocabulary in wit was as low as yours, Harry. It would make thinking so much easier.” 

Harry threw a cushion at him. Draco spluttered on the dust that puffed out on impact and chucked it back with force. 

Despite his laughter, Draco daren’t let himself relax into it for a second. He… well… things were still _ fragile. _Every whim that urged him closer to Harry, to touch him or confide in him or to so much as joke with him was edged with Dumbledore’s godforsaken voice reminding him that things were about to turn South. Horribly so. And he was spending more time now worrying about whether Harry and the redhead were getting it on rather than the fact that the headmaster had all but admitted to sacrificing himself for Draco. He was ‘dying anyway’, sure, but that didn’t make the thought any more palatable. 

“Are you alright?”

Draco started. Harry was perched on the mattress facing his sofa, regarding him with mild trepidation. Draco made a mental note to control his expressions better. 

“Fine.” He said, swallowing back the bitter thoughts of the near future. And then, because he absolutely could not help himself, “I didn’t realize you were so whipped, Potter.”

“‘Scuse me?”

“I just think it’s funny how half the nation would walk over fire for you but your girlfriend calls you ‘pigheaded’ whenever she likes. It’s... ironic.”

“My _ what?” _

“Your _ girlfriend, _Potter.”

Draco kept his eyes fixed on the high ceiling, trying to ignore the ceaseless _ ka-plunk _of his heart thudding in his chest. He’d gone there - it was too late to turn back now. 

The silence was killing him. He risked a look at Harry. 

His jaw was set hard and he was scowling at Draco in anger. Why the fuck was he angry? Draco conveyed this question with a single raised brow.

“Why does everyone keep _ saying _ that?” Harry snapped at last. He growled and slammed his back into the mattress, arms folded tightly across his chest. “Me and Ginny are _ friends_, alright? Just friends.”

_ Just friends? _Draco’s chest did something funny. Something slightly uncomfortable. Hmm. 

“Alright! Crikey, Harry, I was only making some light banter. Keep your wig on.”

His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating. His breathing was shallow. His head was a mess.

Harry shot upright again, the gloom of the musty room adding a glint to his piercing exasperation.

“I get enough of that kind of shit from people in my own house, Draco. I just - didn’t expect it from _ you. _” 

Something in Harry’s tone wavered Draco from his cloud of disbelief for a moment. He propped himself up on one elbow to face him.

“Okay! Sorry.” He said, meaning it more than he made it sound. He was sorry he’d brought it up now, that was for sure, but his juddering heart still wasn’t getting the message. _ Just friends_, it beat. Draco bit on his own bottom lip. Smirking in the face of an angry Harry Potter, as much as it was sometimes fun, was never smart. 

“I just”- Harry began. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. “I’m sick of everyone having these expectations of me, you know? It’s not just Ginny - I mean, yeah, it’s fucking annoying that everyone thinks we’re ‘meant to be’ or some shit but she’s like my little sister. But it’s the other stuff too, you know? Like how I’m not allowed to struggle like everyone else. If Ron or Seamus fucked up it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. It would be bad, yeah, but not catastrophic. But me? I have people… _ watching _ me… _ all the time_, just… tripping over themselves to make sure I don’t fuck up or falter onto some other path that isn’t just ‘saving the world.’” He gave a long exhale and met Draco’s eyes, his expression hard. “I don’t even know what that means anymore, Draco. I hardly even know who I am. I _ know _I don’t like Ginny like that, I don’t even think I’m”- He stopped short, sucking in air through his teeth. 

It was as if the room took a breath with him.

“Oh.” Draco replied in a sigh, averting his gaze and sitting upright, tucking his knees under his chin.

“Don’t feel bad.”

“I’m not.” Draco looked at him. His expression was blank. “I’m _ not_. Redhead is off the conversation cards. Got it.” 

Harry scoffed with no humour. “It’s not about - ugh, whatever.” 

He fell back onto the mattress, his cloak thrown over him like a blanket, shirt unbuttoned down to his chest. Pale moonlight pooled in the hollow of his throat - sharpened the angles of his face and highlighted his stocky frame. He was looking away from Draco, the veins on his fists popping as he clutched the cloak tight around his middle. 

Draco lay back onto his couch, resenting himself for being such a snarky bastard _ all the time_. 

_ Read the room, Draco, _the little voice in his head told him.

So he tried again. “I think I understand.” 

Silence. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” He continued, because it was easier if he pretended Harry wasn’t there and he was alone, staring up at the cavernous space above him, “I’ll never know what it’s like to be worshipped and adored, but… that’s it, isn’t it? It would be nice to just have… peace.” Draco huffed a humourless laugh. “Imagine that.”

“I do.” Harry replied, his voice rough and low by Draco’s side. “I imagine it a lot, actually.” 

“You mean you could actually function without chaos? Crikey, there’s a thought. A peaceful Potter.” 

“I would like that.” Harry replied, all serious, and Draco fought hard with himself not to make a sarcastic reply. “I wonder what I’d be like if I wasn’t always…” he sighed, “being tested.” 

“Yeah. It would be like being a kid again.” Draco supplied, idly thinking of hours spent outside or exploring every corner of the house that had seemed so much larger back then. So much more mysterious before he knew what went on inside its innermost walls. 

“No.” Harry shot back. “I could never go through that again.” 

Draco frowned. “Being… a child? 

He heard Harry swallow hard. “No. I mean... yes. I couldn’t. It was awful.” 

Draco couldn’t stop the tiny laugh of disbelief that escaped him. “You’re joking, right? I mean I know you had no parents and, you know, condolences and all, but surely the rest of your family”-

“Were monsters.” Harry interrupted him, his voice full of poison. He’d talked about them… briefly. Draco hadn’t taken much notice, but now he thought of it, there had been a ghost beyond Harry’s eyes. Another touchy subject. Fantastic. Draco was racking up all the points tonight. 

“You don’t have to talk about it.” Draco rushed out, but Harry was talking before he’d finished.

“They locked me in a cupboard. For… most of my childhood. When I wasn’t cleaning up after Dudley or cooking for them I was in that cupboard. Uncle Vernon only tolerated my existence when I was out of sight. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ is what he always used to say.” Harry’s next breath shook. “They never… hit me. Not quite. Dudley did and they let him get away with it, but he was a kid too and _ that’s just what little boys do_, right? They kept me underfed and they never… well, they never... hugged me... or gave me anything that hadn’t been Dudley’s before. Whatever I got was usually broken or covered in bite marks. It was rare when I inherited something that actually worked. That’s just the little stuff, though. I was so _ lonely_, Draco. I had no one. I had my imagination and my hope and - and I couldn’t wait to grow up because I just wanted to be free. Sometimes I think that maybe my Aunt Petunia feels guilty. I _ hope _ she does because - how could you do that to a child? Your _ dead sister’s child? _I’ve tried to understand, I really have, but... I used to think I deserved it. They told me I was a waste of space so much that I believed it. I… sometimes I still do, I suppose.”

“You’re not a waste of space.” Draco found himself saying before he could stop himself. He was alight with anger - his whole body _ pulsed _ with it and he wanted nothing more than to track these fuckers down and at the very least hex them with the most repulsive curse in his vocabulary. Not kill them, however much he might wish it, but make them _ suffer._ “You will never. Be. A waste of space. Do you understand?” 

Harry sat up slowly, his eyes wide.

“Draco, it’s okay. It was years ago.” 

“No it fucking isn’t okay.” Draco shot back, sitting up straight and throwing the full measure of his disgust back because - _ how could he be okay with that? _How could he sit there so calmly and just… relay it all like it was nothing more than an unpleasant story? 

Harry gazed at him. “You’re burning up.” He glanced at Draco’s wrist and his throat worked as he struggled to say what Draco already knew. “You’re…” 

Draco covered the scales rising there with his other hand, the vibrating nerves bubbling under the surface there too as he drew in deep breaths.

“It’s fine.” He reassured impatiently. “I just need you to tell me that you know everything they did to you - that was abuse, Harry. You have to know that. You have to know it wasn’t your fault.” 

Harry met his eyes, faltering for too long before saying, “I-I know.” 

“Do you? Do you promise?” 

He lowered his eyes. Nodded faintly.

“Tell me. With words. Say it: _ it wasn’t my fault. _”

“Draco, this is stupid, it isn’t a big deal”-

“Say it, Harry. Or I - I’m scared I won’t be able to calm down. Say it and mean it. _ Please._ For me.”

On those final two words, Harry squared his shoulders and locked his pin-point gaze on Draco’s once more, some newfound strength kindled in their emerald depths. 

“It wasn’t my fault, Draco. I know it wasn’t my fault. It’s just... hard.”

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Draco felt his heart-rate begin to slow, his breathing steady and the incessant vibrating in his nerves begin to soften. 

“Thank you.” He told Harry on an exhale. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so angry.” 

“I didn’t expect you to.” Harry replied, his expression still somewhere between awe and apprehension. “You don’t have to worry, though. They’re too scared of me to try anything now.” 

Draco shook his head. “That’s not the point. I had the audacity to sit here and go on about being a stupid fucking kid like it was a nostalgic, dreamy memory for everyone. I just… didn’t think. And then when you said - _ all that_. It’s not fair. And Dumbledore” - he spat the name - “_left you with them _.” 

“He had no choice.” Harry jumped in. And _ aaah,_ there it was. The conditioning. The half-a-decade’s worth of brainwashing. Reason number five-thousand-and-who-fucking-knows to despise the headmaster. 

Draco bit his lip to keep from retorting every obscenity under the sun back at him in Dumbledore’s name because, well, Harry didn’t know what the old fuck was about to do. Even so, he levelled him with a glare that probably said it all. 

“Really,” Harry laughed, “I know you’re determined to hate him, but it’s true. When my mother was killed, the blood bond that protected me passed on to Petunia.”

“The one who hates seagulls?” 

Harry rolled his eyes, his face flushing as he no doubt remembered his floundering in the cave before he’d realized Draco was the Dragon - a memory Draco cherished close to his heart because it still remained one of the most outlandish things he’d ever heard. 

“Yes, that one. But that’s why he put me there. He didn’t abandon me.” 

Draco shrugged. “Sounds like bullshit to me. He could have protected you a thousand times better than some rusty old blood magic.” 

_ “Draco.” _

“It’s the truth! He’s a twisted old fart and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can get past your hero worship. Just saying.” 

For a moment, Draco was mildly concerned he was about to be hexed for insulting the almighty Dumbledore to his most loyal pet, but instead Harry snorted. 

“I’ve missed you.” He blurted on the odd laugh. 

Draco felt his arms and legs go numb for a moment. “Pardon?” 

“I mean”- Harry was beet red now. Looking anywhere but Draco. Perplexed, Draco waited, quite sure he’d misheard him. The other boy cleared his throat. “Just our stupid arguments. I’ve missed it since you went all quiet.” 

What a strange thing to miss, Draco thought, even if he did silently agree. 

“You are a masochist, aren’t you?” He said instead. He hadn’t failed to notice the little leaps of pleasure and hope in the pit of his stomach, for all he’d tried to silence them. Because to hope for Harry to have meant what he _ wished _he’d meant was madness of the highest order. Draco was gay. Harry was… _danger-sexual,_ if not completely straight. It was stupid. Absurd. Even comical to suggest that he might harbour feelings of a non-platonic nature for Draco, and even so… the hope was still there. Skipping in his chest. Hell, practically leaping at this point. 

Harry’s smile was shy and teasing as he looked at Draco, and he was sure this time he actually _ saw _it - the same hope, inexplicably reflected back at him. 

“I suppose I am, yeah.” 

*

Harry blinked, and June came. At least, that’s how it felt. And between revising for end of year exams, helping Ginny revise for her OWLs, his evenings with Draco and the ever-increasing threat looming over whatever Voldemort was planning, June was flying by, too. 

His feelings for Draco only ever seemed to intensify each day. And each day he thought: _ No, it couldn’t possibly get any worse_. But it always did. 

Some days it was because of how vulnerable Draco let himself be in front of Harry; when he stared into the Cabinet’s depths, almost losing himself, and Harry was there to draw him back and he’d lean against him for a little while until he felt ready to try again, wand firmly gripped in his hand. Some days it was because of how easily he laughed at Harry’s jokes. And some days, it was just because Harry thought his stupid hair looked great or something. 

There was always a reason, and it was getting harder and harder for Harry to keep it to himself. 

And then there was the Horcruxes. Truth be told, Harry still felt utterly in the dark when it came to his and Dumbledore’s few conversations about the revelation buried in Slughorn’s memory. He hadn’t been summoned to the headmaster’s office since the beginning of the month, and once he’d anxiously sent a letter to Dumbledore’s office asking whether he required his aid, only to receive the brief and rather ominous reply of:

_ Don’t concern yourself yet, Harry. I am researching. Keep an eye on Draco when you can. The next time I call for you, be ready. _

Needless to say, Dumbledore didn’t need to worry there - Harry had both eyes on Draco whenever he could. And when he wasn’t with him, he was thinking about him. 

It was actually getting quite painful. Part of him wanted it to stop, but most of him was scared of who he’d be without it. 

These feelings that couldn’t possibly be surmised in one word were tangled up into his soul - an intrinsic part of who Harry was now. 

In short; he was fucked. And not in a way he would have liked. 

It was five o’clock on the last evening of June when Harry bolted from the common room to the Room of Requirement, his stomach already in knots, imagining the sorts of conversations he and Draco would have that night (and probably petty arguments) only to find it empty. 

Disappointment unfurled, replacing the knots of nervous excitement, until he spotted the white square stuck to the closed Cabinet door. 

Harry walked over to it, pulling it free of its sticking charm and reading the scrawl left there for him. 

_ I fixed it. _

_ Meet me in the forest. _

Harry could _ see _ the shake of Draco’s hand in the squiggly lettering. The knots in his stomach became a full riot - part-excitement, part-fear. Now it was fixed, the plan could go ahead. But _ when?_

He supposed that was something they’d have to figure out now - Draco had Death Eater intel at his fingertips. Perhaps he’d even be the one to orchestrate the ambush… 

_ Godric. _Harry had to force himself to sit, perched on the end of Draco’s sleeping couch, the note crumpling in his hand. 

The Cabinet watched him from a few metres away. Intact. _ Fixed._ A direct portal to Borgin and Burkes. The thought made Harry want to silence his breaths for fear that a traitorous ear could hear him from the other side of the wood that could barely be two inches thick. 

He shuddered.

Resolve kicking in, Harry left the note on the couch and sprinted out of the Room of Requirement, wondering if it would be the last time. Wondering what this would mean for him and Draco now. 

It wasn’t as if they could just be friends from here on in - besides the obvious fact that the whole school would have more questions than Rita-bloody-Skita - Draco couldn’t risk being seen with Harry. He was a double agent. It would mean more than just his reputation. It would mean his _ life_. His _ family’s life_. Draco would never risk all that just to be friends with Harry, let alone anything more, and it wasn’t as if Harry could blame him for it. 

All the way to the grounds he debated this, hardly paying attention to where he was stepping or the various people who waved in greeting to him on the way down. All he could think about was the horrifying and inevitable ‘now what?’ conversation that they were surely about to have. 

Harry wasn’t ready. He just wasn’t. He didn’t want this to end. 

The edge of the forest was bathed in darkness, as always, save for a faint, shimmering blue light perched on a tree branch above Harry’s head.

He squinted upwards, and the Patronus gazed back - _ Draco’s _Patronus.

Despite the panic darting through his veins, Harry smiled. 

The Kingfisher hopped down from its branch and flapped ahead, leading Harry deeper inside.

“Go on, then.” He told it, “Take me to him.”

Harry followed the Kingfisher into the Forest, content to slow down and let his thoughts quieten while the Kingfisher hopped from branch to branch, sometimes flitting between them, sometimes performing elaborate loops and dives in such obnoxious Draco fashion, that Harry had to shake his head and laugh. 

He was so focused on its beacon-bright wings, that he was taken aback when it hopped from the last branch and into a clearing, gliding down directly onto Draco’s shoulder. 

The other boy’s back was turned, so Harry couldn’t see his expression, but the deafening silence that filled the clearing said it all. Harry daren’t let himself speak. If he did, Draco might disappear. They might never have this moment again. 

The Patronus vanished in a puff of glowing smoke, and Harry allowed himself a breath.

Draco turned on it, his face unreadable. He was down to his shirt and school trousers, the top two buttons undone to reveal the Jade pendant at his throat, the warm June night sifting a breeze through his silvery hair. 

Harry stared at him, wishing he could capture him just like this, forever - like a precious gem or a note he could store away from the world. 

But Draco wasn’t something to be squirreled away or treasured in a draw somewhere, locked out of sight. He was a person with a family he needed to protect. And that, Harry knew, was more important than anything he felt for him. 

“Draco, I”-

“Fly with me?” 

Draco interrupted, because he knew. Of course he knew. The truth of it clamoured in wake of his question, its ripples threatening to drown this night into insignificance. Harry decided he wasn’t going to let it. 

“Yeah. Alright.” He replied, breathless. 

*

Fuck it. Draco had one full night left to pretend that everything wasn’t about to go to shit. He wasn’t about to spend it sulking in his dorm and sporting a bitter hard-on for the boy who probably shouldn’t have lived. He was going to enjoy himself, even if it bloody finished him off. After all, surely it was best to be finished off now _ before _ the Dark Lord got his creepy hands all over him. 

Not that he was a romantic or anything, but the idea of dying in the arms of his unrequited crush was a lot more appealing than dying at the hands of a snake-faced freak without a soul. 

Ah, to be young.

Nevertheless, however unfortunate the truth of it was, it was very unlikely he was going to die tonight. Not that Draco _ wanted _to die, but he felt given the impending inevitability of it he should at least get to choose how and when it happened. 

And if he had to choose, it would be right now, with Harry whooping with delight on his back as they flew over hills and lakes, probably in view of the many residents of the wizarding villages not far off in the distance but, well... _fuck it. _

The world was ending. 

There was something different about flying in the sun. If Draco geared his head to the left as he flew, he could make out each individual silvery vein that threaded through the thin spread of his wing thanks to the amber rays that drenched through it. Both wings soaked in the light, absorbing it and, Draco could swear, turning it into _ more _ energy; _ more _power.

Or maybe that was just the exhilaration of having Harry’s seeker-built thighs clenched around his neck, his hands grasped tight around the spines that ran along his back.

Either way, Draco was determined to get his fill of the sun before it set. Perhaps he flew for longer than he should have, higher than he was meant to, but Harry didn’t ask him to stop. If anything, he held on tighter the further they went, the press of his palm firm against Draco’s scales. 

As ever, Draco kept focused on the pendant he kept hooked in his mouth. As ever, he remembered what he might become without his mother’s magic infused in the pendant to protect him from himself - but he found he was less aware of it with Harry on his back. Harry was trusting him with his life. Even if the whole world saw Draco as a monster, Harry didn’t. At least, not right now. 

They flew until the sky became a rich, navy blue, the stars flung out above them like jewels on a blanket of velvet. 

Draco landed at the edge of the Forest by the lake and began transforming back even as Harry tumbled to the ground off his back. 

He _ accio’_d his clothes and wand back to himself, so practiced in the spell by now that he could perform it wandlessly. His entire body vibrated with the aftermath of the magic that still suffused his system, and despite the heat of it, he made sure to pull on his trousers. Draco was more than relieved to discover Harry wasn’t watching him when he turned, half-decent, to find him sprawled on the ground, one arm flung over his face as he hauled in lungfuls of air. 

His blood laced with euphoria, Draco strode over, barefoot, and gave him a little nudge in the ribs. 

“I know you’re not impartial to sleeping rough, Potter, but you’ll end up swallowing spiders down there.”

Harry removed his arm from over his smudged glasses and beamed up at Draco. 

“Maybe I like spiders.” He replied nonsensically, sounding as if he only had half the oxygen left in his lungs. 

Draco snorted. “Can’t say I share your palette.” 

“You did eat a deer, though.” 

Touché. He gave Harry another gentle kick in the side. “Get up, scarhead. I brought us here for a reason.” 

Grinning, Draco breached the treeline and jogged down to the edge of the lake. Long, slow ripples languidly travelled across its mirror-like surface, the castle’s lights reflecting and shimmering amongst the stars.

Come tomorrow, Draco might never see this sight again. 

A tightness spread across his chest and throat at the realization. The pressure to make this moment count for _ something _\- to make his life mean more than the shitty things he’d done - almost overwhelmed him. 

Harry’s steady footsteps along the gravelly shore behind him reminded him to inhale. Without looking at Harry, he took the first few steps into the water. 

“What are you doing?” Harry called.

“Cooling down.” Draco replied honestly. His skin was on fire. He could have sworn he saw thin wisps of steam rising off him as he ventured deeper, trying to ignore the way his trousers stuck to his legs. 

He heard Harry sigh behind him, and the faint rustle of clothes being removed. 

Draco pivoted in the water, waist deep, only to be met with the sight of Harry shirtless, glasses and robes discarded on the bank and wincing as the cold water brushed over his toes. 

“Don’t be a pansy, Potter.” Draco laughed. “It’s luke-warm.” 

_ “Freezing.” _Draco thought he heard Harry mutter, before the Gryffindor plunged himself forward, causing an almighty splash and dunking his whole head under. 

Draco backed further into the lake until his feet could no longer touch the silt at the bottom as Harry swam toward him under the water. 

Harry broke the surface moments later, shaking his head violently and peppering Draco’s face with water. 

“Subtle.” He commented, unable to stop the upward tug of his lips.

In a move that had to be deliberate, Harry forcefully pushed the mess of wet black hair off his forehead and smirked back. 

“Don’t even know what that means.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Draco replied, for lack of anything better as he became increasingly aware of how close they were, their knees brushing as they paddled to stay afloat, “You wouldn’t know a dictionary if it smacked you in the face.” 

Harry gave a short breath of laughter, momentarily glancing down before meeting Draco’s eyes from under his lashes. There was no way Draco could interpret that look into anything other than the way he secretly and sincerely hoped was true. Was beginning, hesitantly, to _ believe _ was true. 

“Thanks.” 

“...You’re not supposed to thank someone when they insult your intelligence, Harry.”

Harry gave an eye roll with his entire upper body. “For _ tonight_, dickhead.” 

Draco heard himself swallow. “Well. You know. Yeah. Sure.” 

Perhaps the sudden panic began to show on his face, because Harry’s expression fell.

They stared at one another, breaths falling between them with urgency. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Harry rushed out all of a sudden in a whisper that encased far too much meaning for Draco to bear. “It’s - Draco, I really don’t know what to do. I can’t…”

Draco had to tell him what Dumbledore had forbidden him to. Harry had to know. He couldn’t lose him tomorrow. Not because of this. They’d figure it out. They had to. 

“I mean, I - I’m sorry. I’ve been trying not to think about it. But I can’t. Now that it's done... we- everything is gonna change, isn't it?” Harry continued, his eyes fixed downward on the small ripples made by their heaving chests. 

Draco froze inside, right down to his core. He closed his eyes, reaching into it, reaching _ beyond _it to a place outside of himself but still close - to a place he used to be afraid of but now he couldn’t carry on without. 

Draco gripped onto it, with all his soul, and Harry gasp.

It was this gasp that made Draco open his eyes. The fire and ice and air of their souls infused between and around them, making the centimetres of distance between their faces feel like nothing. 

Draco had to tell him. He had to be brave for once in his fucking life. 

“Harry”-

But he was interrupted when, instead, Harry kissed him. 

*

Harry didn’t think, he just... moved. He wasn’t even sure what happened until moments - moments that stretched on for an eternity - later. His lips were wet with lake-water against Draco’s hot, open mouth, the last sound of his own name forced to a still in Harry’s throat. Their faces crashed together in a mingle of breaths and surprise, then their hands found each other’s under the water and Draco’s trouser-clad knee hooked around Harry’s and - 

_ Fuck,_ he was kissing him back. 

The acknowledgement of this fact was the only thing that stopped Harry breaking away in panic and apologizing and leaving and probably obliviating himself to kingdom-come. And even as it happened, he couldn’t believe it.

Draco locked their faces together, threading a fist into Harry’s hair and pulling him impossibly closer. Harry responded in equal measure, unsure if the soft, urgent moan he heard came from him or Draco. It didn’t matter. This time their souls met, unlike the last, they felt so... alike. Harry struggled to separate the pattern of his own chaotic heat from Draco’s as the magical bond they’d unintentionally tied swirled and thickened between them like twisting rope, only to snap back seconds later as they broke apart, heaving for breath. 

Harry couldn’t say which of them stopped it, or why, but the next moment Draco’s wide, dark eyes were on his, his pupils blown wide, his mouth parted and reddened from Harry’s own. 

For a moment, Harry feared he’d completely misinterpreted the situation and that, _ no, _Draco did not reciprocate even a smidgen of the feelings Harry had and that he was about to be told this very fact and sent packing. 

But Draco’s eyes dropped to his mouth, his features softening, and it was _ him _who leaned in and kissed Harry again. Softer, and slower and more deliberate than Harry’s blind dive into the deep end. 

Harry forced himself to hold back - not to deepen this soft pressing and pulling motion into a spiral of heat and desperation born from the fear of the war they would soon have to fight. 

This time, the moments slipped into meaningless seconds as time wore on and all Harry could focus on was the barest sensation of Draco’s chest pressing against his underwater and the way one hand gently cupped Harry’s face whilst the other gripped his shoulder tightly. Harry held him back, scarcely moving as he slowly let himself believe that he was not dreaming.

He could have kept dreaming, if that were true, were he not forced to wake up by a searing burn against his thigh. 

Making a sound of frustration, Harry broke the kiss, a pang in his abdomen already yearning for more. 

“What is it?” Draco whispered, barely a sound, as Harry dug into his pocket and produced the fake galleon. 

“I’m sorry.” Harry apologized, hardly registering anything at all. He looked at Draco, holding the coin dumbly. “Um. I dunno.” 

Draco’s expression morphed from dazed confusion into mild irritation, his face flushing - whether from the kiss or the interruption, Harry couldn’t tell. 

Harry was slowly dragged from the languid surrealism of the moment by the incessant burning of the coin. Someone was trying to contact him. 

“I- they knew I was out. With you. It must mean something. They don’t usually do this.” 

“Okay.” 

“Someone could be in danger.”

“Yes.” 

“So I… I mean. I suppose I should”-

“Yeah, you should.” 

Harry stuffed the coin back into his soaked pocket, irrational anger towards his friends pooling in the same place where bliss had stirred moments before. 

“I’m sorry.” Harry apologized again, absolutely refusing to let go of Draco’s shoulders. But Draco hadn’t let go of him either yet. 

He averted his eyes, angling his head away from Harry. 

“It’s fine, Harry." He mumbled. "You don’t have to justify yourself.” 

“I’m gonna come back.” 

Draco’s eyes found his again, full of doubt and hesitation. Harry wanted to kiss it away, to hold him close and just take him _ with _ him for Godric’s sake. But it was too early. This was too new. He didn’t even know if Draco _ liked _him. Actions might speak louder than words, but Harry still needed the words. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I can. I will. I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

Another doubtful glance. 

“Draco… I’m coming back.”

Incredibly, Draco’s mouth - the very same mouth that had kissed Harry moments ago - tipped into a ghost of a smile. 

“You’re not at my beck and call, Potter. You can go wherever the fuck you want.”

“That’s why I said I’d come back.” 

Draco’s smile became shy and uncertain, and Harry’s stomach did gymnastics again. 

“Alright." Draco replied, swallowing thickly, his eyes darting from Harry's mouth to his eyes. "I’ll be here. Or... over there. If I don’t get bored.” 

And then, just because he didn’t think he’d be hexed for it, Harry pressed his eyes closed and gave Draco one final peck on the lips before kicking off under the water and swimming to shore, his skin all at once burning and icy where Draco’s hands had been on him. 

He only looked back once he’d dressed and performed a thorough drying spell on himself. 

Draco existed as a small, pale figure in the stretch of nearly-black water, watching Harry. 

Harry gazed back at him for an inexcusable length of time until the searing coin in his pocket reminded him where he was supposed to be, and he sprinted back to the castle, his heart both heavy and full all at once for reasons he couldn’t begin describe.

  
  



	17. Falling

Draco waited.

He waited for as long as he could stand on the starlit riverbank, watching the castle lights flicker and a roil of clouds haul closer over the highlands in the distance. In the grand scheme of the night that was about to unfold, this waiting period would be remembered as a blip - a tiny insignificant moment of precious peace he wished he could have relished in. The sensation of Harry kissing him, his hands in his fair, on his face and his bare chest, clung to his skin long after the water had dried naturally. As did his parting promise:

_ “I’m gonna come back.” _

Draco made a mental note to tell Harry not to make promises he couldn’t keep. He was still numb with shock and disbelief and… happiness? Draco was unsure - amidst the guilt and the fear, it was hard to hold onto such a feeling for any length of time. 

He still had tomorrow, didn’t he? He could tell Harry then about Dumbledore’s plan. Doubt at this, too, curled inside his chest. The kissing had sort of complicated things. 

No spoken confession had passed from Harry’s lips, but Draco highly doubted the snogging had been an accident. Despite his fear and worry and shame - Draco couldn’t suppress the small smile that followed this thought. 

The whole thing had been so _ Harry_, it hurt. Draco should’ve known words would never have been his style. No, a clamouring, fiery clash of mouths was Harry’s go-to. Of course it was. And then the next segment of slow, building kissing... Well, that had all been Draco’s fault. In his defence, it had been virtually impossible to resist with Harry bloody _ staring at his mouth like that_, looking thoroughly done-over, his hair a mess from Draco’s hands. 

Selfishly, he wanted more. He wanted Harry to come back from whatever was taking him so long and do it all again. 

Draco wanted a lot of things, and a lot of them rarely happened. Why should this time be any different? 

With a frustrated sigh, he kicked on his shoes, yanked on his shirt and made for the castle. The Vanishing Cabinet might have been fixed but he had plenty of other preparations to tie up before tomorrow. Writing a will was first on his list:

_ I hereby leave all of my personal possessions to Harry Potter. Yes, that one. You thought I hated him? Oh, to be a heterosexual. Give him a kiss from me. _

It was unfortunate he would be dead and unable to see the expression of the pompous, bureaucratic job’s-worth responsible for handling that one. 

He was so lost in his momentary amusement, albeit morbid, that he failed to notice the two figures sprinting across the grounds towards him. When he finally did spot them, it was too late to get out of sight and mind his own business. They were aiming for him, no doubt about it, and the flash of red hair of the tallest, lankiest of the pair gave them away.

Weasley and Granger. 

Draco resisted the groan that threatened to rise. They were possibly the last two people who wanted to see. This thought was punctuated by another, more urgent one however:

_ What if they were looking for him because something had happened to Harry? _

He sped up, meeting them halfway to the castle as they skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.

“Harry - wanted us to find you.” Granger panted, her hair a fuzzy flurry about her red face. Weasley clutched a stitch in his side, somehow still managing to throw Draco a nasty scowl at the same time nevertheless. 

Draco equalled it. 

“Why? Is everything alright?” He asked. His concern for Harry’s wellbeing trumped even his urge to laugh in their faces and make a scathing remark. He gave himself the tiniest of pats on the back for that. 

Granger and Weasley exchanged a tight look as they straightened up, catching their breath. 

“Um. We don’t know.” 

“As ever, I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

Weasley’s sour expression intensified. Draco smirked back. 

“He came to us just before he left,” Granger thundered on, ignoring the animosity. Probably wise. “Dumbledore summoned him because, well, he found”-

Weasley gripped Granger’s arm. “Don’t go _ telling _him - he might not know.” 

“He found a Horcrux?” Draco interjected, dimly satisfied by the surprise on their faces despite the thin flow of anger seeping into this chest, “Yes. Potter told me about those.”

Granger met his eyes, and maybe she guessed his anger wasn’t directed at them, because the way she spoke to him wasn’t at all as cutting as it should have been.

“Then you know,” She said, “You know how dangerous this is. You know that Dumbledore has left the school unprotected and anything could happen.” She dug into her robes and produced a small, nearly-empty vial Draco faintly recognized. “Harry wanted us to give you this. Ron, Ginny and I and some of Gryffindor house have already taken the rest. It’s”-

“Felix Felicis.” Draco finished with a mutter, a golden, hazy flashback to their night in the Greenhouses filling him with the barest ounce of joy as he took the vial from her. He clutched it in his warm fist rather than take it. 

“Listen, I know when the ambush is happening. It isn’t tonight, it’s tomorrow, so you needn’t have panicked. You should have saved this.” 

Granger and Weasley’s faces didn’t change. 

“How can you be so sure?” Asked Weasley with impressive disdain.

Draco brandished his tattooed forearm, forsaking the twinge of dread it induced in favour of their shocked expressions. “Member of the club, Weasley. I’m usually amongst the first to know the important dates. Inner circle and all that.” He pushed down his sleeve. “Besides, my mother told me. She knows everything they’re planning.” 

Granger began shaking her head. “Malfoy, don’t you think it’s fishy that Dumbledore found the Horcrux _ now_? Don’t you think whatever magic had been hiding it from him was lifted for a reason? Maybe” - she paused on a shaking inhale - “maybe you were given the wrong date on purpose.”

“My mother would _ never _lie to me.” Draco growled, stepping forward. Weasley was between them in an instant, a snarl on his lips. Like a bloody guard dog. 

“Jesus, Draco, that’s not what I’m saying.” Granger continued. “You-Know-Who is clever. He’d know not to give out the real plan to everyone, _ especially _ you. He wants you to kill Dumbledore, and he wants you to have an audience. The ambush could never happen while Dumbledore was _ here _ \- that’s what he’d _ think_, anyway. Surely the best plan would be to storm the castle while its most powerful gatekeeper is away and wait for him to come back while they have the upper hand? Plus, he doesn’t know you’re a traitor. _ He _ doesn’t know _ Dumbledore knows. _He’s testing you, that’s what all of this was about to begin with. It’s about manipulating you.” She sighed, and by the sounds of it she’d given this theory a lot of thought. Draco would never admit it outloud, but it sounded... credible. He knew the Dark Lord considered him a coward. It would be just in his style to spring this on Draco and force him into a corner when he was underprepared - surprised and scared - just to see if he could actually do it. Just to test his mettle. 

For fuck’s sake. All he’d needed was one day. One more sodding day.

“Yeah, and Harry was pretty sure tonight was the one.” Weasley spat out. Like Harry was the font of all knowledge. 

“He made us promise we’d find you.” Said Granger far more softly. Draco did not like the expression of pity and sympathy and… _ knowing _plastered all over her features. 

He averted his eyes to the ground, thinking hard, the vial of luck potion slippery in his hand. 

“Did he say anything else?” Draco made himself ask. 

“Just that he’d be back in time to help.”

Merlin only knew what he’d wanted to hear, but it wasn’t that. 

“Bastard.” He murmured. He sensed rather than saw Weasley tense at that. At least one thing was clear - Harry hadn’t told them what had… happened. It was just as well. Draco would have been hexed to kingdom-come by now if they knew - probably accused of sexually manipulating Harry or putting him under the_ Imperius _ curse or something. Even though _ Harry was the one who'd kissed him first_. 

Draco put a forceful mental block on the memory. He had to plan. And fast. His to-do list had suddenly become very limited, and the time he had left to complete it was running out if Granger was right. Every second from here on in might be precious, he realized, and he was wasting them. 

“When he comes back, tell him…” Fuck, _ fuck… _ tell him _ what? _

They waited. 

“Tell him he’s an idiot.” 

It would do. 

Draco sprinted back to the castle, paying no mind to Weasley and Granger’s bemused faces or to who saw him thundering down the hallways in his obvious state of disarray. He barrelled into his dorm minutes later, gratified to find Theo and Blaise playing a game of exploding snap. 

Their heads lifted at his entrance for the merest second before they went back to pretending he didn’t exist. 

“Theo.” Said Draco firmly, recovering from his sprint. 

“I thought I told you to fuck off and leave me alone.” Theo mumbled at the stack of cards. And it was true. Last time Draco had tried to have a conversation with Blaise and Theo he did distinctly remember Theo uttering the words ‘fuck off and leave me alone’ whilst Blaise watched, failing to tell Theo to shut up and listen like he would have done in the past. But that was weeks ago. And time was running out. 

“When’s the next time you’re supposed to be seeing your dad, Theo?” 

Theo’s expression became livid as he turned, standing to face Draco with balled fists. 

“What the fuck are you playing at? Is this some kind of messed up recruitment tactic?” Theo seethed as Blaise stood slowly behind him, the expression aimed at Draco one of horrified disbelief. 

Draco sighed, too mentally exhausted for this as he pushed past them, rooting around for clean clothes in his drawers and his mother’s mirror. “No, Theo. I’m trying to warn you. I’m trying to warn you both. Because you might be seeing him a lot sooner than you think. Hogwarts will probably be ambushed tonight.” 

The room became deafeningly silent as Draco removed his shirt and yanked on a clean one, followed by his most reliable set of black robes. 

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Blaise’s almost-whispered dread-filled question filled the space as Draco finished checking his pockets for everything he needed. Wand. Potion. Mirror.

“Dumbledore? No. No, I’m not going to kill him.” Theo and Blaise exchanged a bewildered look. “Theo? Get the fuck out of here. I’m serious. Find bloody Longbottom and leave. Your dad’s probably going to come looking for you first and if you want out, now is your chance. Blaise? I’m sure there are other people besides yourself who you want to protect. So find them, yeah? And do something about Greg. Pretty sure Vincent is a lost cause, but… Greg might be alright.” 

They stared at him, mouths falling open in unison. It would have been gratifying or maybe even funny if every bone in Draco’s body wasn’t shaking with apprehension and cold, stark fear. He pushed past them again, heading for the door. 

Theo yanked him back. 

“Excuse me, what the fuck?” He demanded, somehow finding anger to be the solution to his confusion. 

“Yes, I know about you and Longbottom.” Draco drawled on a sigh. 

Blaise’s eyebrows drifted to his hairline. “I have… hundreds of questions. Not sure where Longbottom belongs on that list, but he’s bizarrely high up - but more importantly, like Theo said, _ what the fuck_, Draco?”

“I’m not a Death Eater.” Said Draco blankly. “Not anymore.” He didn’t have time for this. 

Theo removed his hand from Draco’s collar slowly. 

“Are you sure?” 

_ I was just snogging Potter, so pretty sure, yeah. _

“Yes, Theo. I’m sure.” He paused at the doorframe “And _ get out of here_. Both of you.” 

Item number one on his to-do list: _ Check. _

It was twenty minutes past eleven, and he had one last person to find. Draco’s skin buzzed as he searched all the likely corners. The library. The quad. The fifth floor near the charms classroom. But incredibly, he found her at the foot of Ravenclaw Tower when he’d been on his way to the Astronomy Tower. 

And she wasn’t alone. 

“Oh. It’s Draco.” Luna Lovegood breezed as Draco stormed up to where Astoria had been talking to her in low, furious tones.

Astoria turned to him, her features tuning into his panic and creasing into a frown almost instantaneously. 

“You look like shite.” 

“Yeah. Look. You need to leave.” He spared a glance for Luna. “You too, probably.” 

Astoria rolled her eyes. “Is this about the ambush?” 

Draco blinked. “What - you _ know_?” 

Luna answered for her, holding aloft a fake galleon between her thumb and forefinger which glowed dimly but unmistakably. 

“Harry warned all of us before he left.” She huffed in a fashion that seemed oddly out of character for her and turned her attention back to Astoria, “I was _ trying _to convince Astoria to leave before you arrived. Perhaps you can help now, I suppose.” 

“I’m not going anywhere!” Astoria argued passionately, planting her feet firmly a shoulder-width apart. “I’m staying with you, Luna. I’m going to fight.”

It clicked for Draco then, probably far too late, that _ Luna _was the girl Astoria had been pining over for all these months. The single silver braid in her hair made sense now. It all did. Draco would have laughed if the situation weren’t so dire and he wasn’t certain he was about to suffer a stress-induced hernia.

“We don’t have time for this! You don’t need to _ bloody fight, _ you imbecile - in fact _ neither _of you do. Just - run away!” 

Luna faced him, a small, sad frown adorning her delicate features that echoed something of his own lineage back at him. 

“But what about everyone else?” 

“I’m sure they’ll find a way out.” 

“What about the first years?” She countered. “They’re too young to protect themselves.” 

A stab of shame pelted Draco in the gut and he was momentarily, irrationally angry with her for pointing out such a frustrating and valid point that had failed to even occur to him. 

“Well… what about your Order people?” He fired back. 

“I’m sure they’re on their way. But there aren’t enough of them.” She told him softly. “But I’m glad to see you’re on our side too, Draco.”

“I’m not on your”- Oh, who was he fucking kidding? He growled in frustration. “Ugh, whatever. Just... now isn’t the time for heroics, alright? I’m sure Harry gave a very rousing speech but you need to”-

His imploring was interrupted by a sharp, searing burn across his forearm. He winced in pain, clutching it before he could stop himself and at the same moment was struck by a singular, invasive vision - a vision of the gloomy Cabinet, looming before him. The message was clear. 

“They’re here. Shit. Shit, they’re coming. There’s no time.” 

As Draco spun on his heel with no thought or time for goodbyes, he heard a muffled _ “Draco, wait!” _ as his head pounded with the whispered voices of his comrades; the comrades he’d betrayed. He hoped to every god and saint that not a single one of the Death Eaters could read his thoughts, or all of this was over before it had even begun. 

By now he knew the way to the seventh floor so well that his legs carried him there on their own whilst his heart pumped out blood that thinned with adrenaline and terror on each fast, erratic beat. 

He almost forgot to drink the last of the Felix Felicis as he reached the blank wall that was soon to materialize into a door. Panting, he uncapped the bottle and tipped back its meagre contents. The droplets that coated his throat and tongue were warm, like singular drips of sunshine that did painstakingly little to soothe his fear as they slid down his throat. 

Draco was about to close his eyes - to picture the door - when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. 

He jumped on a gasp, only to find himself met with the dour face of Severus Snape. 

“I’ll go, Draco.” The Potions Master told him in a voice that wasn’t exactly comforting. But it wasn’t stone-hard either. “Dumbledore will be apparating to the top of the Astronomy Tower shortly. Go there, and await his instruction. I will take care of the others. Do you understand?” 

Nodding, his poor, tired heart flooding with momentary relief, Draco was grateful to leave the Room of Requirement behind and find his fate elsewhere. 

He must have taken the potion just in time for Snape to turn up (if it had anything to do with it at all - it was such a small amount that it might have made no difference). All the while he’d been picturing opening the Cabinet only to be met with the black-toothed leer of his deranged Aunt… Merlin, he hated her. 

As Draco ascended the steps to the Astronomy Tower, his pace not slowing for a moment, he relished the lash of a cool breeze through his hair as he ascended higher and higher. It had felt like seconds since his interaction with Snape, but the tower was all the way at the other end of the castle and by the time he’d reached it, the Death Eaters had already made their mark. It hung there - a shadow in the sky - a blown up, far more terrifying version of his tattoo, complete with the thick, coiling snake protruding from the skull’s mouth. 

Upon seeing it, Draco slowed, so distracted that for a second he failed to notice the figure standing beneath it, hunched against the iron railings and deathly pale. 

He was almost invisible there, clutching the bars to hold himself semi-upright, all of his stature and power dwindling before Draco’s very eyes. 

“Professor?” Draco blurted into the wind-whipped quiet, frozen at the top of the steps. 

The headmaster gave a weak, but relieved laugh at the sound of Draco’s entry, and glanced up to take him in with shining, sorrowful eyes. 

“Ah, Draco… yes… there you are… everything is falling into place.” 

Draco made to move a step closer but Dumbledore held up his blackened, withered palm, signalling him to stop. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Draco demanded, loath to show the old man any sympathy, regardless of his painfully pathetic stature. “What happened?”

“Poison, my dear boy. But not to worry. It isn’t…” He coughed, the sound wet and rattling, “...deadly.”

Draco scoffed with no humour. “Like that makes a difference.”

Surprisingly, the Professor smiled too, perhaps also seeing the irony in his empty assurance. 

Draco surveyed the small space atop the tower, searching for a pair of reproachful green eyes, gleaning an ounce of hope when he didn’t find them.

“Where’s Harry?” He asked, hoping nothing too telling crept into his tone. 

Miraculously, Dumbledore hauled himself to a position that could almost pass for him merely taking a leisurely lean against the railings. His blue eyes were sharp. “Did you send him away?” Draco demanded, “I find it hard to believe he’d leave you in such a state. Where is he?”

“You have no cause for concern, Draco.” 

“But he knows, doesn’t he? What you’re making me do?” Draco pressed, thoroughly unconvinced. 

Dumbledore slowly shook his head. “He does not.” 

Draco made a frustrated sound and pushed his hands through his hair, shutting his eyes against the sight of the all-powerful headmaster - so weak and frail - and against the storm of guilt and dread writhing in his chest. 

“It isn’t fair.” He groaned. “You don’t understand how… how _ shit _it’s been, keeping your fucked up suicide plan a secret.” 

Dumbledore gave the merest flinch at his words. _ Good_, Draco thought rather sadistically before it occurred to him that these were probably the man’s last moments on Earth, and maybe he should be using this time to help him reflect or... something. Godric. What the fuck did that even mean? 

“It is not your fault, Draco.” Dumbledore told him softly in the same comforting tone Draco despised. He didn’t deserve this dying man’s comfort. 

“Shut up. Please.” He moaned, shoving his hands over his face like a child. “I have to think. There has to be another way.” 

“There is no other way.” Dumbledore countered, his voice penetrating the wind and Draco’s thoughts and the coil of denial curling tighter and tighter within him. “And you have done so well. You’ve done everything I could have hoped and more.” _ Don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t- _“I am so proud of you, Draco.”

Draco sobbed - a single dry heave. He hated how easily it was wrenched from him by the mercilessly cruel, achingly kind words by a man whom he loathed. 

He hid his face fruitlessly, drying the tears that swelled behind his eyes with the crook of his elbow before forcing himself to look, hoping the cooler air dried the rest of the evidence from his face. 

“I have done _ nothing_.” He spat back. “_Nothing _, d’you hear me? I was supposed to kill you. And instead I have betrayed everyone close to me so you could live out your fucked up little power trip to the end.” 

The headmaster drew himself to full height, and though his shoulders sagged a little - though he was a mere echo of the presence he’d been before this night, the sight still intimidated Draco. 

“You still can, Draco, if that’s what you want. You can kill me now and no one will ever suspect a thing.”

Draco stared at him, stunned and at once terrified by how easy it would be and by how impossible it truly was. The headmaster drew his wand. 

“But you won’t.” 

“...No.” 

“We are running out of time. They are coming. You must disarm me, Draco. You must be strong.” 

The haunting cries of his Aunt’s whoops, of the thunder of footsteps on the stairs, clamoured up toward them - a dreadful warcry. A ticking clock with seconds left. Draco pulled out his wand with trembling hands.

“But…”

“Disarm me.” Dumbledore ordered, his voice pitching into a cracked but urgent growl. “Now.” 

_ “E-expelliarmus.” _The headmaster’s wand flew from his grip and out of sight. Draco’s spell was so lacking in conviction it easily could have been countered, but the scene was set:

Here was Draco, standing upright and pointing his wand at the most powerful wizard of their time who stood, seemingly at his mercy, backed against the railings with nothing but a two hundred foot drop behind him. 

And that is how the Death Eaters found them. 

_ “Ohohohohoh!” _ His Aunt’s melodious shriek of laughter almost made Draco clench his eyes shut in denial. But he held fast, frozen in his own terror as she draped her rail-thin body around his shoulders and whispered, “Well _ done_, Draco. Our master will be _ so _pleased.” 

Her aura was rancid, and he was forced to hold his breath as she panted ragged, uneven breaths by his ear, her wicked grin stretching into a low snarl of delight. 

More footsteps joined in, and their shouts of triumph and mocking drowned into insignificance as Draco desperately searched Dumbledore’s face for one last hint as to what the fuck he should do next. 

All the while those eyes, those knowing, plotting, seeking eyes retained a sentiment only Draco could read - the one that continued to echo and rattle through the cave of his chest with no identity and no idea where to place itself.

_ I am so proud of you, Draco _, it said, and it was awful. They were the same words Bellatrix crooned in his ear now - but their meaning could not have been more different.

Finally, the headmaster tore his eyes away from Draco’s and focused on the figure who now stepped forward to stand between them. 

It was as if Snape, with his billowing black robes and proud frame, was shielding Draco from view on purpose, for he only heard the next utterance. A quiet, broken plea, almost stolen by the wind:

“Severus… please.” 

Draco was spared the sight of the headmaster’s death as Snape, without hesitation, muttered the killing curse. There was a blinding flash of green, and all Draco caught was a glimpse of long, white hair and a swish of elegant robes as Dumbledore’s body toppled over the railings. Not in flight, but falling. 

This moment, just like when Harry had kissed him, occurred outside of time. How was it that two such separate incidents could cause Draco’s legs to go numb? Could make his heart stutter in his chest and his mind fail to comprehend what was happening before his eyes? And even though they _ saw _ it, even though he _ heard _the jubilant cheers as the Death Eaters around him swarmed and shook him in triumph and clapped each other on the back, he did not register it. He could not. 

Snape, like Draco, stood in the exact same spot moments later as Fenrir Greyback flung his wand high and recast the Dark Mark into an even bigger, stronger and more violent mirage of black and stormy clouds. 

Draco’s wand was loose in his grip, and his other free hand instinctively grasped at the hidden pendant around his throat. 

_ Mother_.

Coming to his senses, he gazed around for her. Surely… surely she would have come. For _ him _ if no one else. The mirror inside his robes sat, heavy and significant and unused. He’d not had time to check it - not a moment before this… _ this… _

Dumbledore was really dead. It was neither a failure nor a success. It merely _ was _ and the fact of it bore down on him with an almost overwhelming sense of meaninglessness. Draco had done exactly what he was told by both parties - evil and good - and in the end neither had made a difference. 

The Death Eaters began to disperse, their plans to take over the castle already taking precedence over their most recent victory, and his mother was nowhere to be seen.

Someone was tugging on Draco’s shoulder. 

“Come with me. Now, Draco. Come.”

Snape. Of course. 

The Astronomy Tower had emptied, leaving them both standing in the awful, violent silence.

Draco could not form words. Could not shake the feeling of utter _ wrongness _that had come to settle over his shoulders ever since he had reached the top of the stairs. 

“Draco.” Snape reaffirmed. His pale, thick-fingered hand on Draco’s shoulder trembled. 

Draco nodded, and followed him. 

It was in this state, this numb, cold state, that Draco was made to watch as the Death Eaters stormed the corridors, smashed windows and terrorized the one place outside of his mother’s grasp he’d ever felt safe. All the while, he could only process two thoughts:

_ This is so wrong _ and... _ where is Harry? _

Every traumatized pair of eyes Draco passed, he both hoped and dreaded belonged to the Gryffindor. By now he must have known - that Dumbledore was dead and Draco was there. That he hadn’t stopped it. 

There was still time, wasn’t there, to explain it to him? Would he believe him? Or was everything they had come to mean to one another as doomed as the purpose of Dumbledore’s suicidal escapade?

If the Headmaster’s intention had been to save Draco’s life, it was sure to be wasted, because with each step he took, the urge to transform and fucking _ do _something was almost impossible to bear. 

The skin on his arms and legs had become hard and slippery under his robes and he knew the scales were there, inching ever closer into visibility, into revealing his darkest and most terrible secret. 

It was when they got to the grounds, and Bellatrix sent Hagrid’s house up in flames that Draco could bear it no longer. The sight of the fire, blazing and free and unchained almost whisked the Curse out from the hollow of his throat where it was already sitting in the form of a lump ready to tear out of him. 

Undone, he stumbled away from Snape and the others and into the shadows of the forest’s cusp, fingers clawing at his throat and his chest as he desperately tried to keep the Curse inside. The flickering orange shadows and screeches of delight and fear grew steadily more distant as he crashed through the undergrowth and the blur of his surroundings darkened with the threatening loom of panic and his Curse.

“Calm down.” He muttered to himself over and over, “Please, please, just fucking... calm down.” 

Perhaps it would have worked, if he’d stayed there, half-lying in the gloriously concealing dark of the forest floor, but as always, fate intervened. 

A blood curdling scream followed by a chorus of cruel jeers - a man and a woman by the sounds of it - signalled to him from further inside the forest. Not towards the fire or the hauntingly distant shouts, but close to him. 

Draco did not have to stagger far to see what was happening. He kept to the undergrowth, out of sight, as he witnessed the criminal act taking place in a small clearing before him. 

It was the sunshine blot of a Hufflepuff scarf he noticed first, laying on the ground by its owner who writhed and screamed in agony as two Death Eaters stood above him, pointing their wands at him. He couldn’t have been older than twelve. 

“How’s this for our first one-to-one, eh, sis?” Barked the first, the male. From his voice, Draco instantly recognized him as Amycus Carrow - which must have meant the woman was -

“Oh, he’s got a lot more coming to ‘im. We ain’t done with you yet you vile little creature. You’ll pay for having filthy, disgusting blood and tarnishing our kind.” _ Alecto Carrow_. 

The boy not a yard apart from them in the clearing whimpered and cowered, his begging sobs incomprehensible and unheard as they cackled and raised their wands to torture him again. 

Luna’s words to him earlier about the first years being unable to protect themselves floated back into Draco’s psyche - and it was _ this _ that sent him. The flood of rage that coursed through him was more than enough to tip his Curse over the edge, and as the sight of the sadistic brother and sister uttering the _ Cruciatus _curse became pinpointed into a narrow tunnel of fury, he didn’t try to stop it. 

He felt the barest sensation of his robes ripping as his wings burst forth from his back, and vaguely registered the twigs cracking and slimmer trees snapping apart as he became bigger, but in record time he was prowling into the clearing, the loud and deadly growl that fueled his Curse snatched from his throat and thrown into the vicinity of the siblings he now desperately wished to _ kill_. 

Their expressions of disbelief and fear drew all their attention from the boy, and it must have been from sheer practice that one of them managed to conjure a shield charm in time as Draco launched the full wrath of his flame upon them, setting the ground and the nearby trees alight. 

In his peripherals, he watched the Hufflepuff boy curl into a protective ball, shielding his face from the sudden blast of heat. He was out of range, so he was sure not to be hurt, but somewhere amidst his blinding rage, Draco registered it and stopped. 

That _ wrongness _settled over him again, dampening his scorching anger like a cloud of fine mist. 

Even so, he was pleased to note the Carrow’s spells hadn’t quite done enough. Alecto’s horrid screams cut through the clearing as she whacked at her own glowing face and neck where she’d been burnt. Her brother was already tripping over himself to run away.

“A fucking dragon! It’s a _ mother-fucking _ dragon, fucking _ MOVE!” _

Draco leaned closer, no longer in control of the ferocious sounds pouring out of his mouth and at the Carrows. They continued to ripple through him even after the Carrows had disappeared out of sight and their frantic footfalls could no longer be heard. 

It was only the shuffle of leaves behind him that snapped Draco out of his animalistic trance and back to the reason he’d transformed in the first place. 

He turned, and was met with another pair of small, brown horrified eyes - all of their fear now firmly pointed at _ him_. 

Draco tried to rearrange his features out of the snarl that still hadn’t quite dissipated, but it was fruitless. He was a monster to this boy. He could never be a saviour. He doubted even transforming back into his human form would convince the kid he didn’t want to roast him alive. 

In this form, the child seemed even smaller to him, and he was struck by how many others like him Draco had allowed into the path of people like the Carrows. Had allowed to be hurt.

Fuck that - how many others like him _ Dumbledore _had allowed to be hurt. Selfish prick. What a shit time to die. 

On that thought, Draco forced himself to turn away and leave through the burning hole he’d left in the forest, branches crumbling to ash as his wings brushed up against them. His part was done. And he’d just done the stupidest thing of all and revealed himself to the Death Eaters. 

Like with everything else, Draco found a way to blame the man who now lay dead at the foot of the Astronomy Tower.

*

Fire, screams and terror plundered the castle. Every time Harry rounded a corner, he thought this might be the end - this could be the battle that takes him - for every corridor that wasn’t deadly quiet, was alight with spells and curses and hooded figures carrying out their orders. _ Harry’s _ Order, the people who, too often these days, had to come to his aid, were right there in the thick of it: Lupin and Tonks took on Yaxley and Dolohov. Mad-Eye and Kingsley threw jets of red and white light at Bellatrix Lestrange, her deranged laughter only interrupted with choruses of: _ “He’s dead! He’s dead! Dumbledore is deee-ead!” _

The plight felt as if it lasted all night, and when it was over, Harry could only feel that the whole ordeal had been a horrific, hallucinated nightmare, exhaustion crusting in the corners of his eyes, settling in the fibres of his clothes and seizing his joints as he sat in the hospital wing by Bill Weasley’s bed with the rest of the family. The locket felt light and almost non-existent in his back pocket, hardly even a presence for something so monumentally important. And when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t the fire rising in plumes from Hagrid’s hut or the screams of unsuspecting children that etched themselves into his eyelids, but the singular image of Dumbledore’s still, white face, his features frozen in perpetual peace, and Draco’s voice ringing out: _ “He knows, doesn’t he? What you’re making me do?” _

Harry felt sick, the sharpness of the truth rising as bile in his throat. Draco _ knew _what was going to happen. And, worse than that, Dumbledore had wanted him to do it.

Harry didn’t know who to be angry with. Whether he should even be angry at all. Betrayal and anger felt like such abstract emotions in the face of everything that had transpired tonight, and in the end all he felt was hollow. Exhausted. Desperate. For what, he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Perhaps it was the very same thing Dumbledore had longed for and only achieved in death.

Peace. 

A warm hand on his shoulder. 

“Harry.” 

Harry blinked, slowly, and looked into the face that peered down at him, her expression worn with worry and fear, her kind eyes rimmed red. 

“Sorry, Mrs Weasley.” He said, coming to his senses. “Is there anything I can do?” 

She shook her head. “You need _ rest, _Harry. You’ve done too much.” 

_ Not enough. _

Whatever had happened to Bill, Harry hadn’t been able to stop that. 

“I have to make sure everyone else is okay.” 

“We can do that.” Came Lupin’s voice from behind her. 

Hermione rounded the side of the bed to crouch beside Harry. He searched her face for injuries. There were none that he could see, but she seemed… _ wounded,_ nonetheless. They all were, he realized. 

She dug into her pocket, producing a piece of old parchment Harry instantly recognized. 

“I brought it from your room.” She said, handing it to him. “So you can stop thinking about it.” 

Molly gave Hermione an exasperated look as Harry perked up, sucking in air through his teeth as he opened the Marauder’s Map with shaking hands, scanning the intricate corridors and grounds for the name, his heart seeming to beat out its sound for all to hear.

_ Draco, Draco, Draco. _

Its beats dwindled to almost-silence in Harry’s ears as the search became hopeless, as the more he searched the more hazy the inky black lines grew, every other name and foot-print his hungry gaze fell upon becoming bitter and spiteful. 

Draco was gone. 

“Who are you looking for, Harry?” Lupin asked him, a note of concern entering his ex-professors voice. 

Harry dropped the map into his lap, non-verbally demanding it to become blank once more as all emotion inside him became spent, shrinking and becoming ice in his chest. 

“No one. No one at all.”

  
  


  
  



	18. Solitude

**Part II**

Draco had often sought solitude during his adolescent life. There was nothing more fulfilling than finding a small spot to tuck himself into, preferably by a window on a rainy day, and whiling away the hours reading a good book. Solitude had, up until now, been a reliable source of comfort. 

Solitude when it was forced against him, however, turned out to be the exact opposite. 

It was Snape who’d found him. In his smallest Dragon form, Draco had found the deepest and darkest area of the forest, shrouded from the Death Eaters, the fires, and the very stars themselves. 

“Draco, _ go.”_ Snape had hissed, his face white with a kind of terror Draco had never seen before. Maybe it was the terror of a man who had just taken the life of another. Perhaps if Draco had done as the Dark Lord had bid, he’d be carrying the same expression.

He growled back at Snape, folding his wings back and showing he was _ not _ going anywhere. He had too much to explain - too many people to go back for and… and _ warn._

“They will find you. The Carrows told the others of your attack, Draco, they _ know you are here. _Unless you want them to find out _ who _you are, you must leave. Immediately. Or ruin all of your mother’s efforts to protect you.” 

Draco faltered, his snarls fading into dreadful, low whimpers as he thought of his mother. 

“Leave here. Go far. I will make sure no harm comes to her. As for your father… I cannot make any promises. He has disappointed the Dark Lord greatly. Do not make the same mistake. Your best hope of survival is to go missing. Let no one find you.” 

_ But what about- _

“_Go, _Draco.” Snape raised his wand, beetle black eyes communicating desperation above all else. 

Draco was torn. His tired wings prepared him for flight, every heartbeat pumping blood and adrenaline into the hard tendons and muscles that worked them, but his thoughts remained at the castle. Shouts sounded in the near distance - the witch hunt on his tail - and even he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could fight them all off. Not like this. 

With one last snarl of resentment thrown at Snape, Draco kicked off from the ground and broke through the canopy just as a jet of red light narrowly missed him. It was a weak stunning spell, and would do nothing to penetrate his armoured scales, but it spurred him on nonetheless. 

With each wing beat, the shouts grew more and more distant, and the castle lights dimmed until they disappeared completely. He felt as if he were tugging on a string he hadn’t even realized had been attached to his chest, pulling it tighter and tighter until it was taut enough to cause him physical pain. 

The reality that there was no going back dawned on him as the dawn itself began to rise over the hill peaks, drenching Scotland in hues of dusty pink and blue in a scene that should have been peaceful, but only reminded him of all the mornings he was going to miss. 

The way ahead of him was a bleak, bottomless void, the sky a vapid, clear blue. 

Draco flew further and longer than he ever had in his life. His mind was absent and numb as he flew through the day and into the night. He didn’t even notice when clouds started to gather and the temperature began to drop. The rain that followed was a deluge, a downpour that ran clean off his scales but chilled him to his bones. He attempted to rekindle some of the weak flames in his chest, but failed, utterly exhausted. 

Draco was inside the storm, engulfed in dark grey clouds. He had no idea where he was. He was just thankful he’d had enough of his wits about him to store his wand in his mouth, so at the very least he’d be able to cast a location spell when he eventually landed. 

Every muscle in his Dragon’s body screamed to be released from this relentless flight. His wings were on fire, each beat ripping a fresh shard of pain through his muscles. But he pushed on, gritting his teeth and tasting the metallic sheets of rain, willing himself onwards until the very last wick of energy eventually burnt out. 

The descent was less of a glide and more of a plummet. His wings became limp with fatigue on the last hurdle, and all he could do was brace himself as he landed, shoulder first, into a flimsy wooden structure, the rain and thunder and lightning only a chorus accompanying his crash. 

The Dragon was spent, lying in a heap of straw and dust, and Draco had no choice but to transform back. 

All he could feel was pain. Pain, shattering what felt like the core of his bones and stretching his muscles into near seizure - surely more than he’d ever felt in his whole life, he’d pushed himself so far. But to Draco, this physical agony registered as little more than an unfortunate side effect in comparison to the turmoil in his heart. 

He spat out his hawthorn wand from where it had been gripped, steadfast, in between his jaws. 

Shivering in the unbelievable new cold of the dingy, unknown place he’d crashed into, the first thing Draco cast was a stuttered warming charm. In his state of exhaustion it nearly drained him, and the spell was weak. He collapsed against a sturdy, sweet-smelling (and now soaked) pile of hay, his sensitive skin protesting the sudden abrasiveness of it. He tried, and ultimately failed, to conjure something resembling robes. The pile of flimsy black cloth that configured on the ground at his feet was just that. Calling it a blanket would be an unwarranted exaggeration. Nevertheless, he used every ounce of his strength left to wrap the thing around himself, his arms shaking violently from the effort, knees buckling the instant it was draped around his shoulders. 

Draco did not sleep. He remained somewhere between wakefulness and surreal disbelief, strange shapes in the dark taunting him amongst the crashes of thunder above.

Come the break of dawn, the hollow tug that had at first been confined to his chest now spread across his entire body. Wet, trickling drips poured from the hole in the high wooden roof of this… barn? The haystacks gleamed almost gold from the pale sunlight that pooled from the same place he had destroyed, and the splintered pieces of wood surrounding him glistened from last night’s rain.

And, miraculously, he was still alive.

For better or worse, Draco could not deny the fact. Even in his numb, fragile state he was able to register, at the very least, the blunt acknowledgement of his own existence. 

_ What a pain, _was the comment to offer itself first. 

He did not have much time to dwell on the agonies of his life, however, for the next moment there was a loud, foreign exclaim coming from the great red doors that had, seconds earlier, been shut.

Ah. So he wasn’t alone, then. 

Draco would have scrambled upright were it not for the screaming protest from his muscles. He winced into a sitting position, the blanket prioritized to cover his dignity, and locked eyes with the old man who stood, dumbfounded, amidst the destruction. 

He pointed at Draco with wide, pale blue eyes and a shaking hand, shouting something. 

Draco groaned. 

“Hang on, hang on.” 

Translation and language spells had always been a strong suit of Draco’s. He had his mother and their many travels around the globe to thank for that, but in this state it was certainly a little more difficult to cast one wandlessly. 

He screwed his eyes shut tight and concentrated. 

“...Vandal, vandal!” The old man was shouting. 

Draco held up his hands in surrender, making a conscious effort to maintain the spell’s potency as he spoke. 

“This wasn’t me!” He yelled back in - _ ah, Russain. _Thank Merlin it wasn’t Spanish or Portugese. Draco was shit at both of those, though he’d have been loath to admit it. Really, the translation spell wasn’t entirely necessary. But Draco had been shaky on his language skills as of late and he didn’t want to freak the old man out anymore than he already was. 

“It was the storm.” Said Draco, “I was just seeking shelter but I swear I didn’t destroy your barn.” 

It was just a tiny lie. A tiny lie to a muggle albeit, who wouldn’t be able to comprehend the truth, anyway. Draco was doing a kindness to the old sod. He’d even be able to fix the bloody thing once his strength was up to par. 

Finally, the old man seemed to get over the initial shock of the destruction of his property, for the next moment he was squinting hard at Draco. 

“Why are you naked, boy?”

“I am not naked.” Draco replied obtusely, indicating his scrap of cloth. 

The old man frowned. “Yes. I see. Drugs. Definitely drugs.” 

It was Draco’s turn to frown. Was the translation spell messing up? 

“Drugs?”

The old man cast his eyes to the ceiling. “My god, boy, how much did you take?”

“I’m not _ on _anything!” Drafo retorted, scandalised. He should have realised the old muggle was referring to some kind of intoxication. Of course, in Draco’s world, illegal potions and spells were the method of choice. So it wasn’t surprising the muggles had their own ways too. 

Draco sighed. “Listen,” he began, unsure where he was going with this but that was the beauty of improvisation, right? “I had to run away from some… _ people._”

The old man points his finger. “You with the mob?” 

“No, no, not the... mob. Nothing like that.” Draco stumbles over his words, having no idea what this ominous ‘mob’ could be, but knowing it wasn’t good from the tone of the man’s voice. “It’s a long story, but I’m not here to hurt anyone. I mean, look at me. Not exactly as if I’ve got anywhere to hide a weapon. And I’m exhausted. I’ll leave, just - let me get my strength back for a few minutes.” 

The man regarded him, his face going through a plethora of thought before landing on an expression that was somewhat more forgiving. 

“How old are you?” 

“Seventeen.” 

The old man tutted. “Too young to be getting involved with such nonsense…” The rest of his mutters were drowned out as he turned his back and began to shuffle out of the barn. Draco felt his entire body deflate with a tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He’d move along soon. Find some other barn to crash into, no doubt. 

“Well, come on then.” The old man barked over his shoulder.

Draco paused. “Pardon?”

“Come on! I’ll take you to the house. You’ll catch the devil’s breath out here and you look half starved.” 

Draco froze, his entire being struggling to process what he was being offered. The old man did not wait for him, and Draco had no choice but to stumble, baffled and barefoot and confused, into the soggy field.

* * *

Draco stayed with the old muggle man, who’s name he sooned learned was Oleg, for almost three weeks. It took him over one whole week to get past the shock - one whole week mostly spent in Oleg’s spare bedroom, gazing up at the chipped plaster ceiling and accepting as many bowls of beetroot soup as he was offered. He tasted nothing. He felt nothing. The images of that night’s events flashed before his eyelids every time he blinked, as fresh as if they were happening over and over and over again. 

The death. The flame. The flight. And then, underneath it all, those precious moments in the lake entangled with Harry - seeming more like a dream each time he thought of it. 

The moment was so out of reach now. Wrenched out of his grasp by distance and circumstance. 

Perhaps Harry thought he’d betrayed him. 

Everyone would be looking for the Dragon by now, he knew that much, but surely no one would be looking for him. 

His mother, maybe - but the very thought of her grieving after him was enough to make tears spring in his eyes and the tightness in his chest become almost unbearable.

So he did not think of it.

He let moments and hours and days pass. It was on this eighth or ninth or tenth day that Draco moved from the room. As usual, he heard old Oleg’s stiff gait climbing the even older stairs, no doubt to leave another small offering of food outside his bedroom door. But this time, Draco opened it to greet him. 

Oleg blinked in surprise, steam from the soup bowl fogging his worn spectacles. He noticed the old man’s eyes drift to the pendant at Draco’s throat in silent question.

“Good morning.” Draco greeted him, embarrassed now because he had no plan, really. Here he was, in this old guy’s pyjamas, eating his food and living in his house for nothing in return. 

“It’s evening, actually.” Oleg replied grouchily. He shuffled his feet. “Are you better? Strength back, lad?”

Draco nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you. Sorry for - everything.” 

Oleg was already waving a dismissive hand. “I'll hear none of that. 

,And before he knew it, Draco was being plied with some clean clothes and even _ more _food, after which he was instructed to head downstairs. In the privacy of the spare bedroom, Draco adjusted the clothes to fit with magic. If Oleg noticed, he said nothing. 

After sharing tea with him downstairs, Draco offered to fix the barn. Oleg scoffed, and said he was welcome to it, but he couldn’t imagine how such a scrawny boy could possibly have the strength and the know-how. Draco assured him he would, and over the next week spent the days going down to the barn and fixing the roof a little bit at a time with magic. He knew it would have scared Oleg, if he’d just fixed it all at once with not a stain on his clothes and not a single imperfection left in the rafters, so he did it gradually. 

Granted, the old muggle was still bemused by Draco’s efficiency, but he was grateful, and rewarded him with food and - most importantly - quiet. 

Draco had never experienced such silence. He was far from peace; the night becoming a dread as he was plagued with nightmare after nightmare of the headmaster’s dying plea, of the destruction that followed and even the Hufflepuff boy’s terrified expression when he’d seen Draco. All of them became a constant in Draco’s dreams. But the days were, for now, a refuge. 

Draco knew it couldn’t last forever. After fixing the barn, Oleg began to tell him stories about his family. He was a widower, and both his sons had long left home to begin new and exciting lives in the city. They were old enough to have children of their own, he said. All Oleg had were his crops and his books and he was - _ Draco marvelled at this _\- content. 

Every muggle studies class Draco had been forced to take he’d treated as a joke, but he was fascinated with Oleg’s life. His kindness, even, which was so understated. He wanted nothing from Draco, not even a story in return. 

Draco couldn’t ever imagine a life without magic, but this guy seemed to be doing fine out in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest village being over an hour away by truck. Draco had struggled to comprehend the thing when he’d seen it. A big, huge lump of red metal that transported Oleg wherever he needed to go - _ painstakingly _ slowly. The pace of it boggled Draco’s mind, and at once awed him. He wagered he could spend months in a place like this, just studying how muggles got these bizarre contraptions to work without magic - his instincts for figuring out the mechanics of how every little thing worked kicked in hard when he saw Oleg turn on the stove, or switch on a lamp with _ electricity_, or drive his truck. All of it was, truly, incredible.

But he had to leave.

If the Death Eaters found him here, which eventually they would, he knew they would not hesitate to take Oleg’s life. He was no more than an ant to them. Draco might not understand his way of life, but he bloody well respected him. He couldn't help it. The realization of just how _ much _Draco respected this grouchy old muggle was… unsettling. Not months ago, he would have scoffed in Oleg’s face and told him to stuff it. That idea disturbed him far more than his feelings now, dredging up a well of shame. He’d come so close to staying that way - to letting his ‘Malfoy pride’ overshadow his respect for human life.

_ Malfoy pride _meant nothing. His family name, his blood, his past and his wealth meant nothing now. Not on Oleg’s farm. Not for as long as Draco was being hunted, or for as long as the Dark Lord reigned. And for as long as the Dark Lord reigned, people like Oleg would always be in danger. Especially in the presence of someone like Draco.

Maybe Harry had been right back in May - maybe he _ was _becoming a martyr. 

With this in mind, Draco left.

Oleg left him with a small bag of food. Draco offered to return the clothes, knowing he could conjure something far more practical now, but Oleg laughed.

“And walk around naked again? You are strange.” 

Draco was not about to explain to him this would not be the case, and that he wasn’t the perverted exhibitionist he was sure Oleg thought he was, so he accepted the clothes and food and left, using a _ Point Me _spell to guide him to somewhere as remote as possible.

He would have to transform and fly again. He wasn’t sure he could risk apparation; for starters, he’d only done it a handful of times, and always with his mother’s or father’s supervision. He didn’t trust himself. Not yet. 

Draco spent the morning and afternoon hiking across the flat plains of the rainy landscape. Once or twice in this time, a couple of trucks passed by and Draco tensed with dread, but no one stopped to ask what he was doing out here alone. He found a sparse woodland, and his magic assured him here would be safe to transform, but Draco didn’t just yet. He was loath to expose himself again, and he found he was much more comfortable setting up under the trees. He cast warming spells and protection spells against prying eyes, keeping him safe (or at least under the temporary illusion of safety) until he had to move again. 

There was something freeing about having no idea where he was - terrifying, yes, but he was so tired of being terrified that instead he felt a deep calm hush every heightened sense as he laid back his head and gazed up at the stars. The only thought that entered his head as he did so, was:

_ I wonder if Harry is looking at these stars, too? _

*

Harry wanted to destroy this necklace the first chance he bloody got. He hated the thing - how cold it was around his neck, how the icy pendant bit and ticked against his skin like a spiteful heart, and how just wearing it filled his head with an array of unpleasant thoughts, usually directed at Ron or Hermione in someway. They knew better not to get on his nerves these days. He was sick of arguing with them. Sick of sharing a tent with them. Sick of death. Sick of hearing about it. Sick of everything.

Judging by the colour of the leaves on the trees, it was autumn, and he was getting sick of that too. Their endeavour to the ministry had been successful, but all celebrations stopped there. After Ron had splinched himself and they realized they had no idea how to destroy the sodding necklace, they were left… stuck. Again. 

And that gave Harry time to think. He’d been trying to do as little of that as possible since June. His last couple of months with the Dursleys had been teeth-grindingly numb, but the second he’d left, he’d had enough to be distracted with. Even if it _ was _in the form of more death and terror. 

The marauder’s map had become a hindrance more than a comfort these days. He studied it at every possible opportunity. He knew with almost absolute certainty that there was no chance of ever seeing the name he desperately wanted to. This only served to infuriate him further. It was this _ almost _ certainty, this niggling sense of hope that was the real killer. Harry’s best and only hope for Draco was that he wasn’t under Voldemort’s watchful eye. But there was little chance of that, wasn’t there? The last he’d seen of him had been just after Dumbledore’s plummet - and the expression on Draco’s face had been… haunting. Utterly devoid of colour, staring at the place Dumbledore had stood, his wand held loosely by his side as the unforgiving breeze combed through his overgrown, silver hair. 

Harry, trapped by his own shock, hadn’t realized the body bind spell had come undone until the Death Eaters and Snape had ushered Draco down the stairs to begin their onslaught on the school. 

He’d tried to look for him - he _ had _\- but Draco was gone. The map had proven as much. 

There were rumours, later, that the Dragon had returned. That it had been sighted in the forest and it was being used as a weapon by the Death Eaters. 

It couldn’t be, could it? Surely by now, there would have been some _ sign… _Surely Draco would have tried to escape and come looking for them?

It was these thoughts that drove Harry mad and kept him from sleep. It was these thoughts which fuelled his irritation, making his friends’ apathy towards Draco all the more wearisome. He would have hoped they’d have cared about Draco, too, at least just for his sake. But they didn’t. Harry never mentioned this, of course. He never talked about his ex-nemesis in front of them because he’d hate to see the looks on their faces. The resentment and pity and - 

“Harry?” 

Harry snapped out of the onslaught of thought, eyes narrowing as they landed on Hermione’s tired features. 

“What?” He snapped.

A dint appeared on her brow. He huffed. “If you haven’t got anything useful”- he began to rise, but she grabbed his arm.

“Sit down.” She ordered in a tone not unlike Mrs Weasley at her most vexxed. Harry raised a brow. 

“‘Scuse me?” 

“Sit down, Harry Potter, and stop being a _ git _for a second!” 

Routinely, they kept their voices down. They were covered in protection charms, but it was best to be safe. Hermione was always the first to remind them of this, so her shriek came as a shock. 

Harry sat back down outside the tent, back onto the hard-packed, godforsaken earth. 

“Take it off, Harry.” Hermione said, her voice pitching softly. 

Harry blinked, surprised by the surge of defensiveness that welled at her demand. He didn’t want to, he realized. He _ really _ didn’t want to - because _ it _didn’t want him to. The disgust this filled him with was enough to overpower the feeling the necklace was trying very hard to instill in him, and he slowly pulled the thing over from around his neck. It was like it had its own centre of gravity; it resisted. But as soon as it was off, it was as if he could see in colour again. The weight that lifted from his shoulders was instantaneous. He laughed involuntarily.

“Oh...”

“Yeah.” Said Hermione, lips quirking into a small, knowing smile of relief. “Better?”

“Much.” Harry smiled at her, and then, “... sorry. I’ve been a dick.” 

“A monumental one.” Hermione confirmed, taking the necklace off him and putting it around her own neck without a beat of hesitation. If it affected her, she hid it well, but he didn’t fail to notice the way her eyes dimmed ever so slightly. “We need to take it in turns.”

Harry sighed. “You’re right… I should have said something earlier. But it… it’s like it _ wanted _me to be possessive over it.” 

“We know.” Hermione reassured him, “That’s why we didn’t say anything. Ron and I decided it would probably be best if I spoke to you”-

“You were right.” Harry gave a humourless laugh. “I know I’ve been a prat but... I don’t know, it’s like Ron doesn’t want to speak to me at all. At least you try.” 

Hermione’s face crumpled, but she didn’t deny it. Harry knew they’d been having conversations about him since his connection with Draco began, but it hurt more now. He’d trusted them with anything before that. He still would, if they’d let him. 

“He’s hurting too. He just doesn’t understand.” 

“And you do?” 

She took her time to reply, and they watched the leaves fall for a little while as the sky became dark. 

“I know why you look at that map all the time. I know what you’re hoping to see. I know what you want to do.” 

Harry’s fists curled atop his knees. “But we can’t.” 

“No, Harry. We can’t rescue him.” 

_ Fuck_, and that hurt the most. Because he _ knew_, of course he did. He didn’t even know _ if _ Draco needed rescuing, but it was the thought that he _ might _ \- that he might be locked up somewhere or worse, being coerced to Voldemort’s will… it was too painful to sit here and do nothing. 

“We don’t even know where he is.” Hermione continued. 

“I know.” Harry said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“But you lovehim.” She rushed out in a whisper, one that carried the weight of the conversation she’d been dying to have with him. One he wouldn’t _ let _her have. Not either of them. 

He felt the panic manifest onto his expression, and saw her own anguish reflected back. He didn’t need to say it. He’d never said it to Draco but he’d said it to himself, almost. Countless times. 

_ How do I stop?_ He wanted to ask her. He wanted her to tell him what to _ do,_ but he knew as well as she did that their only option was to keep going. To find a way to destroy these horcruxes before things got worse. Because they could get worse. That was the horrifying part of all this. If they exposed themselves, it would be suicide. There were already snatchers out there, waiting with bated breath for one of them to slip up. The price on their heads made it a tempting bet for any witch or wizard, never mind the lowest ranking Death Eaters, all desperate to please their master. 

He swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth. 

“He wanted to tell me, you know.” 

Hermione waited for him to finish. 

“He wanted to tell me that Dumbledore had a - a _ plan_. One he didn’t want me to know because… he knew I never would have gone with him to the cave otherwise. But Draco really wanted to tell me. He was so fucking torn up about it and I never got to tell him that it _ wasn’t his fault!” _ As hard as he tried, Harry couldn’t bring himself to hate Dumbledore. He’d loved him for everything he’d done for Harry. He’d set him free from a life of abuse at the hands of the Dursleys (he could imagine Draco’s snide remark: _ and he put you there in the first place_). But Dumbledore had shown him _ magic._

And he’d also used him. 

He’d used Draco, too, and put him through hell to do it. 

It was clear Hermione had no idea how to respond to his outburst. She gazed at him with wide, heartbroken eyes and though her hand was outstretched, she made no further move to touch him. He hated this - how the distance between him and two of the people he trusted most in the world had grown so obvious. A vacuous drift of uncertainty and animosity. He reached for her hand instead, gripping it tight, refusing to let this war come between them too. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m just so scared.” He admitted, the world becoming a blur as months worth of unshed tears began to fall. 

“Me too.” Said Hermione, and he thought she might be crying too as she held his hand even tighter.

*

**   
  
**

Draco’s hatred for hot climates was renewed after he was forced to spend a month on the equator. Snatchers, in their ever growing numbers, had taken to roaming Europe for signs of blood-traitors and Dragons alike. 

Greece had been fine from the end of September until October, where Draco almost had a run-in with a very large group on the coast. He’d been forced to transform so quickly he’d almost left his wand behind. Once again, he’d flown to exhaustion, landing in the Aegean sea this time. Then he found his way to Africa, resisting transformation until the end of the month, where he steadily made his way from Namibia, across the South Atlantic, until he landed in Paraguay. 

Draco was learning a lot about the world during his time on the run. For one, a surprising number of the few wizarding communities he’d stumbled across in various parts of the world were either completely unbothered by the invasion occurring in Britain or bizarrely encouraged by it. 

In one of his more naïve moments in August, Draco had stumbled across a wizarding pub in the South of France, a large portion of its customers being students from Beauxbatons. He’d used a glamour, as he always did, but evidently not well enough.

A spattering of blue-uniformed boys and girls were gathered around a radio, clouded by a haze of purple smoke mostly coming from the mouth of one of the older boys who relentlessly smoked from a large pipe made of bone. 

“Ahh, won’t Mr. Thicknesse just get on with it and implement new rules? I am getting bored of these stupid British wars. And for what? Muggle borns?” 

The boy with the pipe rolled his eyes. “It will take a long time, Stephanie. They must _ pretend _they are doing it for a good reason first.” 

“If Hogwarts hadn’t been so liberal with their choices”- 

“You’re blaming a school for the murders of muggles and muggle borns?” Draco found himself speaking up before he had the good sense to stop himself. 

The whole group turned to him, haughty. The boy with the pipe smirked, obviously enjoying the opportunity for debate. 

“And who are you to speak for them?” He asked Draco.

Draco shrugged, regretting saying anything. He was supposed to be inconspicuous - no, _ invisible. _He’d been all too aware of the French school’s sly intolerance of muggle borns, however much they liked to pretend otherwise. 

“Exactly.” Said the girl, Stephanie, “He doesn’t know.”

“I do.” Said Draco. An idiot. Again. “I’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?” Asked the boy with the pipe, more curious than confrontational now. He puffed a long stream of purple from his thin lips. 

“The things he can do. The Dark Lord and his followers.” Said Draco at length. “Believe me, you wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not muggle-borns, not your worst enemy, not anyone.”

A dim silence followed his remark. One of the girls scoffed. 

“You really believe this bullshit of a terrorist with a snake’s face? I think not. He would be arrested just for being so ugly.” 

Draco shook his head, sensing a lost cause. He turned back to the meal he’d ordered for himself, only for the boy with the pipe to come slinking over. 

“I believe you.” He told Draco with inquisitive green eyes. It was the green eyes that made Draco pay attention. No, they may not have been as bright or lazer-like as the pair he really wanted to see, but they reminded him of what he’d been missing for so long. Just for a fleeting moment. 

“My eldest uncle lost a step-daughter in the first war to this ‘man who flees from death.’ He sounds terrifying.”

“He is.”

“And you have met him?”

“First name terms.” Draco smirked dryly. 

He hated how this grasped the boy’s intrigue further, how he leaned into Draco’s space as if to share some of this exclusivity. He was watching him very closely, and Draco made an effort to keep his eyes fixed on the food he wasn’t eating. 

“Have we met?” He asked.

“Definitely not.” Said Draco.

“I recognize you. I’m sure. I went to Scotland a few years ago, you know, for the tournament. Were you there? Shouldn’t you be there now?” 

_ Fuck. _ Draco had thought he’d done an excellent job with this glamour. He’d changed his hair colour to black and _ thought _he’d changed his face-shape enough to be unrecognizable, but evidently not. 

“Maybe I graduated.” Said Draco carefully, feigning nonchalance when in fact his heart was screaming at him to run. 

“I don’t think you did.” Said the boy, treating this as if it were a joke as he took another indulgent inhale on his pipe and clouded Draco in purple smoke. “I think you ran away.” 

Draco gave him a hard look, and the boy’s knowing, coy smile told him he recognized him, at least enough to know he was a Hogwarts student. They were probably the same age. 

“Come with us.” He said, nodding towards the cluster of blue uniforms and leaning heavily against the bar, blocking Draco’s view of the door. 

“No, thank you.”

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere in particular.” Draco pushed his food away, no longer hungry, and stood to face the door, which only put him face to face with the boy instead. 

“I think you would like travelling with me. You wouldn’t have to…” he gave Draco a full body scan “_hide.”_

Okay. He was definitely coming onto him. Draco didn’t know whether to be more or less apprehensive as the realization dawned on him. He forgot, how easily accepted behaviour was like this for families that weren’t like his own, and it flustered him. As it was, he kept up his façade. 

“I beg to differ. And I will be leaving now, if you don’t mind.” 

With far more patience than he truly felt, Draco pushed past him and headed out the door.

Two days later, a band of Snatchers came to the town, asking after a boy travelling alone. 

Maybe it was the Beauxbatons boy who’d reported Draco’s suspicious nature. Or one of the girls. Or an unrelated onlooker whom he hadn’t even noticed. Whatever the answer, Draco definitely had to be more careful. 

He’d avoided them that time, but there was always tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. 

So that was how Draco lived, never staying in the same town, city or village for more than two days. 

Secluded, rural areas were safest of course, but that way Draco missed out on news. Every report was about Harry, in some way or another.

_ “The Boy Who Lived Has Abandoned His Fellow Students” _ or _ “Break in at the Ministry from none other than the Chosen One” _and it was this broadcast in particular that almost had Draco fleeing home in hope.

But the news dwindled again, and the rest became speculation. Harry had disappeared off the map, and so had Draco, and he could count exactly how many days had transpired since their last meeting. Sometimes, when he was truly bored, he could count it to the nearest hour. 

It was a strangely methodical form of self torture he’d become quite addicted to. He remembered calling Harry a masochist and feared it was, in fact, quite the other way around.

He couldn’t be sure of the date when he did decide to go back, or even the month. Perhaps it was almost December… those last few weeks on the equator were a blur.

Upon his cautious flight back to Britain, he found the skies becoming greyer and greyer, the atmosphere gratefully dropping in temperature with each steady beat of his wings. 

He flew high and in his smallest form, amongst the clouds and only at night when he was least likely to be spotted. Occasionally he would hear the roar of a plane engine, or one of the flying machines’ lights glowing dimly through the cloud cover, but Draco was always quick to change course before he could be spotted. 

On the journey, Draco reflected on his months of solitude, on one thing he possibly might have learned (aside from mastering the skill of casting artful glamour charms). All he could come up with, pitifully, was this:

That the rest of the world did not care about them.

This was a battle they would have to fight alone, that _ Harry _ had been left to fight alone. It wasn’t as if the majority of wizarding Britain was on his side anymore, either. The Death Eaters behind _ The Prophet’s _ defamatory articles had made sure of that.

That was when Draco decided, if he could not go home, if he could not see his mother and assure her he was fine, he would find Harry. He would find him and help him fight to the end, his own life be damned.

  
  



	19. Lifeline

**Chapter 18.5**

** Christmas Eve**

_ **~ wholesome (and slightly sad) extra before resuming the angst ~ ** _

Draco wasn’t sure why he did it. He wasn’t sure why he did a lot of things lately, but he did it. The risks were great, he knew - certainly too great to warrant such a reckless trip, but...

Well, it was Christmas Eve. And the moment his feet had touched English soil, he felt as if he were one step closer to gazing once more into the pair of emerald green eyes he’d thought about none stop these months gone. 

Besides, Godric’s Hollow was a historical site. This was educational as much as it was sentimental. 

With this thought in mind, Draco landed outside the sleepy village before the sun had risen, his feet crunching through a thick blanket of glistening snow. One of the perks of the cold season was that he could partially cover his face with a scarf, glamour charm and all, and not a soul would bat an eye. 

Draco took his time. He watched the sun gently rise over the bricked peaks of tiny cottage roofs and a steepled church, the watered down pastel blue of the sky washing the Earth in a haze that looked as cold as it felt. Draco resisted the urge to cast a warming charm, determined to let himself feel everything. Just for one day. 

He didn’t really know where he was going as he meandered through the village green. Dog walkers greeted him cheerfully, to which he politely nodded back. A few shops opened their doors for a few hours before the big day, and Draco watched the hustle and bustle of people buying last minute presents for their loved ones. He sat there for the better part of the afternoon, trying to contemplate the quaintness of the tradition but ending up contemplating what in the _fuck_ he was actually doing here - the place where Harry’s parents had _died. _Draco was about to shake himself free of his grandiose delusions of self-importance and just _leave _when he overheard a brief conversation between a mother and her tiny daughter.  
  
“But why can’t we see granddad like last year, mummy?”

”Grandad has a new home now, sweetheart, he’s sleeping.”

”But he’s been sleeping for _ages,” _she moaned sadly, “can we _please _go and say hello, mummy?”

”... oh, alright. But remember not to tell your dad I took you to the graveyard on Christmas Eve. He’ll accuse me of being morbid.”

”What does that mean?”

”Oh, never mind. Come on, sweetheart.”

Draco blinked, the prospect of the graveyard behind the nearby church beckoning to him like a summoning spell. He supposed an innocent wander around wouldn’t do any harm. It wasn’t as if he was looking for anyone in particular, was it? It was a public space. It wasn’t like standing outside the place Harry had been born all day and _pining, _which, truthfully, had been his original intention. 

Draco waited a few moments before standing up from the bench he’d claimed in the village green and following the footprints in the snow: one pair a small, hopping pattern beside her mother’s larger ones. Dwelling on the footprints only made Draco think of his own mother, so he made himself raise his chin and gaze straight ahead. 

The graveyard was... small. Which was to be expected, this was a small place. But Draco found himself daunted by the prospect that he would certainly find the surname he had held in his mouth and spat, countless times over the past seven years, engraved in stone. It made him feel as though he had no right to see it; no right to stand in their presence after the things he’d said and done to their son. The shame of it twisted uncomfortably in his gut, but he wasn’t a coward. Not anymore. 

Draco took a lungful of cold, snowy air and ventured into the stone garden, fixating on tall, carved angles and their elaborate wings, and stopping by each grave to read the names and dates of each one. He was procrastinating, he knew as much, and it took him almost half an hour before he was stopped short by the two names he began to read without thinking before realising what they were.   
  


_James Potter_

_Born ~ 1960   
Died ~ 1981_

_Lily Potter_

_Born ~ 1960  
_ _Died ~ 1981_

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.   
  
_

Draco started, quite unable to process the words engraved before him. The names were enough, but the message... he righted himself, drawing a shaky inhale. It was a legend - the death of these two; a witch and a wizard whose names paled into insignificance save for their surname. Harry was the important one - the only one people really remembered. Yes, his parents had died, but for a miracle. It was a novel thing, when Draco thought of it, no more than a gimmick compared to the enormity of what had actually transpired here. The fact that Harry was an orphan really didn’t matter to anyone. He had no parents, but he was The Boy Who Lived, so who cared?

Draco hadn’t cared, he realised. Even in those last months when he begun to realise that he... that he felt something _more_ for Harry, he never gave a second thought to his dead parents. He was fucking furious that Dumbledore had left Harry with a family of incompetent, bitter morons, but that was all it had been - another excuse to be angry with Dumbledore. 

Harry had lived a whole life without two parents who must have loved him.

Draco had, at the very least, had his mother. He’d had his father once, too, in the early days. Before the Curse. He even remembered him smiling... laughing with Draco as a child as he played on a toy broom in the summer. 

Harry never had that.

Draco didn’t realise he was crying until he looked down and noticed tiny, melted holes in the snow where his hot tears had silently fallen. He wiped his face, cold with moisture, and made himself re-read the names. 

James and Lily Potter. Harry’s mother and father - who, for all Draco knew, might be watching this very moment. It should have been a creepy thought, but it wasn’t.

”He’s an idiot, you know.” He told the grave, imagining he was speaking to them. For some reason it was easy, and he didn’t even need to think about what he was going to say as he continued, “Everyone bangs on about how brave and courageous and fearless he is, but I’m convinced it’s just blind stupidity. I’ve told him as much, numerous times. I don’t know how he does it. It amazes me. It truly does. He has this way of speaking that just makes you feel like it won’t be too difficult. Like, no matter what happens, it’ll be okay. Like even if you die, it won’t have been for nothing. I used to think it was all a load of cra- pardon me, I mean - rubbish, but recently I... well, I suppose he got to me more than I thought. I think he does that to everyone, but at the same time he makes you feel like you’re the only one he’s ever made feel... _known_. Hm.” Draco paused, the silence serving as their imagined response. 

“Even though he’s an idiot, you’d be bloody proud I reckon. How couldn’t you be? He’s a Gryffindor, you were Gryffindors, and - well, I’ve never met someone _so_ Gryffindor before. He couldn’t be anything else if he tried. He _did _try to tell me he was almost sorted into Slytherin once but call me a Hippogryphs left buttock if you think I’m believing that for a second.  
”I suppose that’s not the stuff that really matters. I don’t think you’d have cared _what _house he’d been sorted into. None of it makes a difference, really, does it? In the end we all do stupid shit. He might be an idiot but at least he’s not... at least he didn’t...”

Draco took another inhale, willing himself to stay on track.

”This isn’t about me, Mr and Mrs Potter. It’s about your son. I-I need you to know how _good _he is. Not in the way the papers talk about. Not in the legends when they talk about all the things he had to do because he had no choice, but because of the things he chose to do. And all the things he chose to do for me. I treated him awfully. We were awful to each other, and honestly, I’ve lost count of all the awful things we’ve said and done. But we’re equal, in many ways. I thought I was nothing. I thought I _deserved_ _nothing_ and I told him that, but he never gave up on me. Not once. He had no reason to help me, but he did. I... I’d never had that before. Every friend I’d ever had wanted something in return, but not him. He didn’t do it for an audience or because he thought it was morally _right _but because he cared. And I never gave anything in return. Not really.”

Draco allowed himself a moment to absorb this, to gaze at their names and let every word soak into the stone.

”Now that we might never see each other again, it’s made me realise how important it all was - everything he did for me, every word, every - every bloody time he snapped me out of my selfish bullshit - sorry, I mean - agh! No, it _was_ bullshit, sorry. There is no other word in the English language for what it was. But he did that, and I know there’s no way I can repay him, but I can promise you this. If we get out of this alive, I won’t let him out of my sight. If he doesn’t want me around, fine. So be it. But I... I’ll still look out for him, and” - Draco’s voice began to break, “and I’ll come back here and tell you about every idiotic thing he does, because I know he won’t be able to tell you himself. He doesn’t realise how important he is, you see. He thinks he’s only worth what the world’s made him. But I know. I’ve seen it. And I promise, I won’t let him forget it.” 

Draco knew, now, that the promise had to be upheld. Stronger than an Unbreakable Vow, the words tied themselves into an invisible knot between he and the grave in front of him, and he knew that to break it would be to break what it meant to be human. 

Draco’s tears fell freely as he left the graveyard, just as the sun began to set. It was best, he knew, to leave before night came. He did not know what lurked in the shadows of the graveyard and he didn’t really want to hang around to find out. He’d stayed by that grave for some hours, solidifying the promise again and again in his head, convincing himself that Lily and James Potter knew him now, that they’d rest easier knowing Draco was looking out for their son.   
  


Draco passed the church, and heard the beginnings of Christmas Eve mass taking place, a choir ringing out across the village green. On the other side of the street, an elderly man and woman ambled along in the snow, arm in arm. Draco bowed his head so they wouldn’t see the fresh tears on his skin and kept his pace inconspicuous. And when he looked back after they’d passed, he saw that they’d stopped. Not to watch him, but to listen to the high, melodic harmony of the church choir celebrating an ancient, annual tradition.   
  
It was odd, Draco thought, how for a second he felt he shared this moment with them. 

**Chapter 19**

**Lifeline**

  
Ron didn’t have to go.

The silence in the wake of his departure was deafening, and within it he felt as though he’d lost Hermione too. 

Harry did not blame himself _ completely. _Just… mostly. It was the information about Charlie that had done it. Harry had let slip, at the worst moment possible, that Dumbledore had Obliviated his brother. 

Ron had turned puce with fury, his fists shaking by his side. 

_ “You… you’re joking. You kept that to yourself all this time? For him?!” _

_ “Not everything is about Draco, Ron”- _

_ “But it is! It is, Harry, and I don’t get it because I’ve been there for you since day one. I’ve _ always _ had your back and you’ve chosen to… to… just abandon us for him! A fucking Death Eater!”  
_ _  
_Things had only got worse from there. And then Ron had run out into the rain, apparated, and hadn’t come back.

Leaving that camp had been a turning point. Harry wasn’t sure Hermione would be able to look him in the eyes again. She’d kissed the red piece of cloth they’d left tied to a tree, before turning her back, a sweep of bushy hair covering red-rimmed eyes, and Harry hated that he couldn’t help but think they were the same now. Both separated from the person they were in love with, neither knowing where they were or if they were even alive. Harry found no comfort in the fact that he’d done this to her, and he understood her silence completely. 

“I want to go to Godric’s Hollow.” He told her as she washed some of their clothes over a lake that would surely be frozen in a couple of days. 

She blasted the cardigan she was holding with a quick drying charm and sighed.

“I was wondering when you were going to suggest that.” 

He didn’t bother to pry into her powers of premonition, instead he steeled himself for what might be another ten minutes trying to convince her to come on this journey. 

She stood, facing him properly for the first time in ages. “I agree.”

He short-circuited. “You do?” 

She shrugged. “What else is there? We can’t wait for the sword to fall into our laps. We might find something there. You-Know-Who _ did _almost die there, after all. There is also the possibility he’ll be expecting us, though. So we have to be careful.” 

Harry nodded fervently. “We will.” 

Her expression pulled tight as she looked at him. “There’s no point in either of us apologising for what happened. I’ve… thought a lot. Tried to stop feeling guilty”-

“Hermione, you have nothing to feel guil”-

He stopped at the glare she gave him. 

“I’ve tried to stop feeling guilty,” she continued pointedly, “and decided we’re still doing the right thing. In fact, maybe it’s better this way. Ron is bound to be safer with the Order, anyway.”

Harry didn’t believe her for a single moment, and she knew he didn’t, but he let her have it. He nodded. “There’s nothing we could have done to stop him. He… wanted to go for ages. I sensed that much. And he was right about me, at least. I hid a lot from him on account of Draco and it wasn’t right.” 

Hermione’s expression remained almos stone-blank, her eyes dead. 

“It wasn’t wrong, either, Harry. It just… was.”

He could find nothing to dispute her with on that. 

They left for Godric’s Hollow that very same night. 

*

Even muggle Britain were afraid. Their fear was a zing in the air - a sharp, metallic taste that swilled the hardiest of stomachs, their basest instincts telling them they had something terrible to fear. But they carried on nonetheless. They voted for their new Prime Minister (who Draco had no doubt was under an _ Imperius - _ either that or he really was just _ that _stupid). They took their children to school and put up their Christmas decorations, and wandering amongst them, Draco tried not to think of home. 

His home was The Dark Lord’s now, he reminded himself. The Manor was rampant with Death Eaters and there was nowhere safe for him to go. Nowhere except the muggle world.

He wasn’t living as _ one of them_, exactly. Merlin, no. He still used magic every single day to _ accio _stolen food and conjure up the bare necessities he needed to live. But no magic that might flag him to higher powers. This meant that when he transformed, he had to do it sparingly and for as little time as possible. Britain was smaller than many of the places he’d visited over the months, which meant more chance of being seen. So he kept to forests and mountains as much as he possibly could. He stayed far out of the way of Scotland. The closest he came was Workington on the West Coast, which was to say, not close at all. 

Draco took to going to the Peak District to transform. It was wild, and at this time of year, mostly deserted - only the most tenacious hikers tackled the snow-covered hills, and Drafo stayed well out of their way. But it was here that Draco made his biggest mistake.  
He’d landed in the snow, transformed back and changed in one of the most secluded areas of the National Park and was ready to head back to civilization when he heard it - footsteps. Not far away, but _ running_. 

It could only be Snatchers. Draco had no time to hide. He cast a shoddy _ Disillusionment _charm the best he could and sprung behind the largest tree he could find as the sound of panting breaths came into earshot.

“It was _ here!” _Said a voice. A voice that Draco recognized. His heart thumped louder in his chest, almost betraying him. That was the voice of Rowle. These weren’t just Snatchers, they were full on Death Eaters.

“I didn’t sense anything… but I can _ smell _it.” Came a growl. Fenrir Greyback. Perfect.

“They’re still here?” Asked Rowle.

A grunt of confirmation came from Greyback, and Draco was frozen. He could not so much as inhale without one of them hearing him. There wasn’t much he could do about his smell, though. 

He could run, apparate and risk it or… stay put, and not make a sound. Fight or flight battled inside him as the pair continued to speculate.

“What _ is _that magic?” Greyback ventured, sniffing so deeply that the sound rattled through the trees. 

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Said Rowle. Draco could hear him pacing, “The Dark Lord is very interested in these pulses he’s been detecting… they’re never often and never for long, but _ something _is moving around here, and using a lot of magic at once to do it.” 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _How had Draco missed this? He’d always considered the act of transforming to be such an intrinsic (albeit unwanted) part of his Curse that he hadn’t considered the possibility that doing so would actually release so much magic, but now that he thought of it.... There were always wards at Hogwarts to prevent him from detection, and the Sky Room at the Manor was a bubble of protection in and of itself. But now he was transforming anywhere and everywhere without a thought for wards or protection, and the Dark Lord had noticed. 

Draco granted himself a millisecond of self-beration for the stupid mistake, but a millisecond was all he could give, because Greyback was tracing his scent, his foul aroma close enough for Draco to wrinkle his nose at. 

Draco had mere heartbeats left before he was found, precious moments to come up with something. Something better than running or hiding, and perhaps even fighting. 

He stepped out from behind the tree, and with a brandish of his wand wiped the _ Disillusionment _charm clean off, the mechanisms of his plan forming in his mind even as he did so.

He relished one hilarious second to drink in the shocked expressions of Rowle and Greyback before the pair drew their wands simultaneously. 

It took every ounce of courage Draco had to hold his hands up and put his own wand in his back pocket. 

“It’s alright, it’s only me.” He said clearly, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

“Malfoy?” Greyback barked in disgust. 

Rowle was slowly blinking at him, so shocked to see Draco that he forgot to close his mouth.

Draco laughed. “Good to see you, too.” 

Neither one of them lowered their wands. It was okay. He’d expected that. 

“You _ traitor.” _Greyback began, marching toward him with a feral snarl. “You have the audacity to turn up out of the blue and smirk at me you little”-

“Traitor?” Draco repeated, feigning confusion. “My friend, I am simply here to atone for not killing Dumbledore myself.”

Rowle and Greyback shared a look, both clearly shocked Draco had admitted to this fault so easily. 

“You deserted, Draco.” Said Rowle, his voice slippery and nasally. “You chose the coward’s route. Just like your father.”

It took all of Draco’s resolve not to flinch at that. Instead he shook his head and put on an easy laugh.

“You thought I _ ran? _You misunderstand me. I’m here for the same thing you are. In fact, I’ve been tracking it for a long time. I thought I would capture it and bring it to the Dark Lord, to show him I’m still loyal. It seems our paths have finally crossed.”

Rowle lowered his wand a fraction. Greyback did not.

“And what _ is it?” _

“The same wretched creature that burned poor Alecto’s face, of course.” Draco watched it sink in, “The Dragon.”

Draco’s worst fears were confirmed when they took him in straight back to the manor. Greyback clearly wanted to kill him right then and there, but he could tell Rowle was scared of what the Dark Lord might do. 

So was Draco, utterly scared in fact, but he tried to distract himself by thinking through the intricacies of his plan as the pair led him to the Portkey. One: The Dark Lord had no idea Draco _ was _ the Dragon. He had to trust that fact. Two: If he hadn’t tortured his mother into submission, he also would have no idea that Draco’s allegiances had completely changed last year. Three: He could tell him more about the Dragon than Rowle and Greyback ever could. Maybe this would buy him enough time to find a way to rescue both himself and his parents… or if not parents, then his _ parent. _

Lucius might be beyond reason by now. For some reason, Draco was far more afraid of facing him than he was of facing the Dark Lord. Funny what a little childhood trauma could do. 

“Grab it.” Greyback growled in his ear, holding a silver spanner between his sleeves. “Try to wiggle out mid-journey and I’ll bite your little ears off.” 

Draco grimaced. “I’m rather fond of my ears, so I’ll do my best to oblige.” 

Greyback snarled again, and Draco really had to stop himself from aggravating the horrible man. 

“Forgot how much of a jumped up shit you are. The Dark Lord will wipe that grin off your face, just you wait.”

Draco didn’t doubt it, and as they all touched the faintly glowing spanner, his insides wrenched from more than just the sensation of being yanked into another dimension.

The Manor had grown uglier, even since his last visit when he’d been branded by the mark a year ago. The darkest clouds in Hampshire seemed to gather to their estate, shrouding the house in a miasma of looming, grey death. They were snow clouds, Draco was sure, but in the gloom of impending night, the few flakes that had begun to fall looked like ash. He considered, as he always did, just transforming here and now and burning the whole place down to its foundations. But his parents were probably in there. 

Right now, that was one of the few reasons stopping him. The others seemed to stem from fear and little else. 

Rowle grasped Draco’s elbow, hauling him towards the gate. Draco shook it out of his vice-grip.

“I know my way into my own house, thanks very much.”

Greyback leered at him as an acne-ridden underling who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else unlocked the gate. 

“Might not recognize it now. Changed a lot since you been here.”

Draco sensed he was right as they trod up the gravel path, the magic in the house a porous entity that seemed to soak up their own and spit it right back at them. 

It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Draco dreaded the healing maintenance the house would need when this was all over.

_ If _it was over.

He blamed Harry's influence for his intrusively optimistic thought. Optimism was dangerous. Especially right now.

He hung onto his fear like a lifeline as they entered the house, the cold in here worse than it was outside. 

Greyback was right. It _ had _changed. More doors had materialized along the hallway - each one black and tall and sturdy. The family portraits were all gone. Not a single painting hung on the ashen walls anymore. 

It reminded him more of the Department of Mysteries than any house. The doors, he was about to discover, all adjoined into one enormous sitting room. The very same room where he’d taken his pledge as a Death Eater and laid on the floor, teeth grit in pain. Only now it was elongated, two fireplaces sporting sapphire blue flames on either end of the promenade-like space.

The occupants in the room fell silent upon Draco’s entry, each pair of eyes widening in shock and fear just as Rowle’s had - each pair except the red, snake-shaped ones still gazing into the flames at the room’s East. 

Draco swallowed hard, hoping it wasn’t audible.

“My lord,” Rowle began, his voice a tremble of apprehension, “We found him”-

“I am sure Mr Malfoy can tell me what happened himself, Rowle.” Said Voldemort, this hissing undertone that pitched beneath his every word sending involuntary shivers down Draco’s spine. “And I’m sure,” Voldemort continued, traversing the length of the room with gliding steps, “he can also provide me with a sound reason for his… abandonment.” 

Draco made himself stare at the floor. A direct gaze would be taken as insolence, and he was sure he would buckle under it.

“My Lord,” he began, bowing onto one knee for good measure. This was about to be the performance of a lifetime. “I did not desert you, as you may have thought - as you may have _ understandably _thought.” He corrected himself quickly, using every ounce of his resolve not to scan the room for the pair of eyes that belonged to his mother. “When I failed to kill Dumbledore as you wished, I decided I would not be worthy to return until I had come back with something equally great. I had to atone, my Lord. I could not face my shame otherwise.” 

The silence was worse than the slow dig of a knife. It stretched on, and on, and on. When Voldemort finally spoke, his tone was glacial. 

“What possessed you, boy, to bestow upon yourself the right to give yourself a task? Surely, the right and sensible thing to do would have been to await _ my _instruction.” 

Draco’s mouth was dry. He hadn’t blinked in so long, the floorboards swam in front of him.

“Yes, my Lord. I understand this mistake now. I should have waited, and had my own shame not prevented me, I would have.” 

Voldemort tutted. “His shame, indeed!” he addressed the room. “You would not be the first Malfoy to allow his infamous _ shame _to stand before his loyalty to me. I am sure your father would be proud, Draco.”

This remark led to a few titters around the room, and Draco made himself bear it. He _ could _bear this… just as soon as he could get his mother away from here. 

“You have, like him, mastered the art of empty words above your allegiance. I am fascinated to know what you thought you could bring to me to escape my displeasure, Draco. Snivelling lies will get you nowhere, so tell me the truth.”

“The Dragon, my Lord.” Draco rushed out. “The Dragon that burned Alecto. I was tracking it so I could bring it to you. I’ve been teaching myself powerful stunning spells and - and I’ve seen some of the things it can do, my Lord.”

This gave Voldemort pause for thought, and Draco glimpsed a shred of hope. 

“Such as?”

“Changing its size at will, my Lord.”

Another silence. And then, slowly, the Dark Lord began to laugh. The rest of the room joined in, until they were all laughing and jeering at Draco again.

“It’s true, my Lord, it”-

Draco did not expect a cold, reptilian hand to backhand him hard across the face with such force that he was sent sprawling across the floorboards.

“SILENCE!” Voldemort yelled, and the room did as he obeyed. 

Draco’s heavy, bewildered breaths were the only sound to fill the space. 

“You are a liar, Draco, just like your father.”

“My Lord, _ please”- _Draco could sense the rest of the party willing him to shut up, or he was about to be very dead. “The Dragon releases large pulses of magic every time it changes size. I’ve seen it.”

He daren’t clutch the searing side of his face. He daren’t show weakness now. 

Voldemort made another hissing sound. “The only reason I can fathom for such a display of wanton impertinence is because you either wish to die, or because you are telling the truth… I cannot imagine Lucius’ son being so willing to sacrifice his own pathetic life for a tale spun of lies, however I can hardly believe what I am hearing.” 

The Dark Lord began to pace, his white bare feet echoing through the room in competition with Draco’s heart. 

“Dumbledore’s secret weapon may not have been Potter,” Voldemort spat the name, and Draco held his breath, “but this mysterious creature. Is it possible he is taunting me with it from beyond his grave? I looked into his dead eyes, Draco. His cold, lifeless body was in my very hands and do you know what I saw?”

Draco sensed he was meant to answer. “N-no, my Lord.” 

“I saw _ peace… _ ” He stopped, his hideous features contorted in rage, “I will not let this fool rest in peace. I will destroy every weapon he has left behind on this earth, starting with this - this _ Dragon_. If that is what it is.” 

Draco noticed a few Death Eaters exchange curious glances. 

Voldemort journeyed back to the East fireplace, it’s cerulean flames stealing his gaze, gratefully, away from Draco. 

“When I was younger than I am now, I found… a creature.”

A hiss, this time not from Voldemort’s mouth, sounded from the doorway. And in his panic, Draco had forgotten about her. _ Nagini. _

Her hiss was a laugh, a taunt meant for him. He felt the blood drain from his face as she slithered past him, her great body coiling up to Voldemort’s shoulder before her tail had even finished entering the room. 

He stroked her huge head, but her beady eyes were pointed at Draco. 

“She was not human or animal, but somehow both. We understood each other. She loved that I could talk to her. She possessed the ability to change long ago, into a woman. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“No, my Lord.”

Judging by the expressions on the other Death Eater’s enthralled and horrified faces, they hadn’t either. 

“Do you fear her more now, Draco, knowing this?”

_ I fear she’ll expose me. _

Nagini hissed, as if in answer to his thought. He sincerely hoped not. 

He shook his head slowly. 

Voldemort gave his attention back to the snake. “Is it possible, I wonder, that Dumbledore was able to acquire a creature as rare as she? To bend it to his will and instruct it to torment my soldiers? I wonder…” 

Draco forced himself to breathe evenly. Voldemort was terrifyingly close to the mark.

“But, I digress.” Voldemort let Nagini slither from his shoulders and wind her way over to Draco. She raised her head, flicking his face lightly with her tongue. If snakes could emote, he was sure she would be smirking at him. She was playing with him, content with the game for now, but she could grow bored at any moment. He glared back at her, silently willing her to say nothing. 

“I will keep an eye on the Peak District, and as soon as this Dragon’s magic surges again, you will go there with Rowle and Greyback to capture it, seeing as you are such an expert now. This is your mission. Until then, you will be confined to one room. It seems I must reassert the true meaning of loyalty in you once again.” The Dark Lord sighed, and came to stand in front of where he knelt. Reaching down with one icy hand, he stroked the tip of a sharp, black fingernail across Draco’s cheekbone.

“You will devote yourself to me again, Draco. One way or another.” 

*

Harry bolted upright from where he lay, tangled amidst his sheets in a cold, fitful sleep. The dream… it had felt exactly like a _ vision. _He hardly dared to think it as the realisation crossed his psyche, terrified of what it could mean.

By now, he well knew the difference between an ordinary nightmare, and a flash of sight from Voldemort’s perspective, the defining trait being that when it was a vision, he always saw something _ new. _Something that heightened Voldemort’s emotions. The elation and unquenchable power he’d felt upon opening Dumbledore’s casket and taking the wand from him, for instance, was a feeling that often plagued Harry’s least pleasant dreams. But that’s all they were. Dreams. Albeit memories of something real, but still…

Panting as his insides quelled with unease, Harry threw himself out of bed and paced to the tent’s entrance, listening to the soft sleet falling outside. It was the dead of night, it could not have been earlier than four in the morning, but he was already wide awake.

“Hey… you alright, mate?” Came Ron’s tentative voice from behind him. He’d been nothing but polite to Harry since his return two days ago - as if destroying a horcrux hadn’t completely wiped any doubts Harry might have been clinging onto about his best friend’s wish to come back. Truth be told, Harry had been happier since his return than he’d been since… well, probably since June. 

Hermione was practically glowing with relief, her usually tasteless meals of foraged mushrooms and beans almost tasty as she went to the extra effort to pick and identify spices, humming with pleasure as she did.

So he had no reason to be getting nightmares. That’s what displaced him the most. He’d been so close to _ happy. _

Even so, Harry was still reluctant to tell Ron what he’d seen so soon after his return. The last thing he wanted to do was piss him off again. 

“‘Minoe told me all about what happened to you in Godric’s Hollow,” he said before Harry was forced to think of an excuse, “I know I’d be having a good few sleepless nights after that and all.”

Harry shook his head, loath to think of it. He missed his wand. It was like missing a limb, a blank, empty space in his hand where the most important extension of himself should be.

“It… wasn’t that.” Said Harry at length. “It was…”

“You’re white as a ghost, Harry.” Ron commented, joining Harry’s side with more confidence now. “You know, you _ can _talk to me. I won’t… you know… bugger off.”

In spite of what he’d just seen, Harry breathed a laugh. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I”- he sucked in a deep breath “I think I had a vision, Ron. From _ him. _”

Ron’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. If anyone knew what this meant, it was him. 

“What did you… I mean, is everyone”-?

“It wasn’t your family. Don’t worry.”

Ron visibly relaxed. 

“Then…?”

“I think he’s captured Draco.”

A multitude of emotion crossed Ron’s face then, all in the space of a second. Harry stopped himself from rushing in. He had to stop trying to guess what Ron was thinking. He couldn’t assume the worst anymore, even if Ron _ did _hate-

“Bloody hell… you don’t think he knows, do you?” Ron sounded genuinely worried. Harry searched his face for signs of animosity - for any indication he thought Harry was being an idiot - but he found none. 

“Not sure. All I saw was Draco kneeling in front of him. He looked…” To Harry’s mortification, his voice began to break. He took another deep inhale. “Ron he looked fucking terrified. I don’t know how long he’s been there, but he didn’t look good.” 

“Where was it?”

Harry scrambled to remember the details. “A-a dark room. I’m not sure. It was almost pitch black and it was just him and V- You-Know-Who.”

Harry couldn’t bring himself to vocalise what he’d heard. The way Draco’s voice had shook when he’d asked:

_ “Please… where’s my mother?” _

And all Voldemort had done was laugh. Laughed in jubilant, cruel notes that echoed around Harry’s own mind like a glass chamber while Draco had quaked before him, his hair grown past his shoulders and his skin two tones darker than Harry had ever seen it - as if he’d been sat in the sun for a long few days. It was these details - these unforeseen changes to Draco’s appearance accompanying the hellish fear in his voice that convinced Harry the vision had been genuine. 

There was a long, horrified pause. Ron’s hand on his shoulder came before his words, grounding him.

“Mate, I”-

“Ron, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything about - about him and me. I can’t pretend I don’t want to ditch everything and go looking for him right now but… I can’t.”

“Why?” Ron said, and Harry was sure for a moment he’d imagined it.

“I- what?”

Ron’s eyes blazed when Harry looked at him. 

“Why can’t you look for him? I know what you think I think, Harry, but a lot changed while I was gone. I know you wouldn’t do half the shit you did for Malfoy unless you really fucking cared. And”- his face turned the colour of boiled radish, but he held his stance, - “I would do the exact same thing for Hermione. If- if I’m getting it right and you really _ do _see him like that which is fine, man, I mean, yeah maybe I would have been a bit more chill if you’d gone for a nicer bloke but it’s you isn’t it so I really shouldn’t be sur”-

“Ron!” Harry cut him off, his face flushing with embarrassment as he grinned at Ron’s panic, “Y-you’re right... it is like that." He swallowed his awkwardness, "but you don’t have to go overboard. I-I get it. And... thank you.”

Ron blew all the air out of his cheeks in a relieved puff. “Right. Glad we’ve got that out the way… but you see my point, yeah? I back you. I don’t think we should go rushing into danger, but I think… this is important. It’s always been important. Not just for your sake but for all ours. I mean… if You-Know-Who finds out what Draco can do, we may as well kiss this war goodbye.” He finished on a grim note. 

And it wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t feared it. It wasn’t as though Draco himself hadn’t blurted out in blind panic that he was terrified of becoming Voldemort’s weapon. But hearing Ron say it… it solidified the inevitability of the fact into something far too urgent to be ignored.

Harry nodded, feeling for the first time in too long that he and Ron were truly back on the same wavelength, and feeling again so grateful to have him back. 

*

They were starving him on purpose. The process was gradual, and Draco didn’t notice until a few days later, when his meals became so scarce and so pathetic that the hollowness created by physical hunger, rather than his unending dread, could no longer be ignored. He’d seen Voldemort once since that first night, and his skin still rose into goose bumps at the mere thought of it. 

Nagini had not been with him, and this single fact alone gave him great cause for concern. He knew she was toying with him, even more so than her master. As far as Voldemort was concerned, Draco was just a sad, snivelling teenager. But Nagini knew. It was only a matter of time before she opened the doors of her twisted game to more players. Just to make things more… entertaining. 

Everything was out of Draco’s control.

He was a moron to think this would have worked.

_ However… _

Draco still was not dead. Voldemort would have killed him, he had no doubt, if he saw no use in him. So for now, for as long as he was still useful, Draco clung onto that hope. 

There was also the impending, and daunting prospect of his Curse. He figured he could hold out for three more weeks without transforming. But three weeks confined to a tiny space, with barely any food or stimulus, was a very long time indeed; especially for an entity so impatient as his Curse. 

It felt suspiciously like a tactic. Deep down, Draco was terrified the Dark Lord already _ knew _about his Curse, and was using the method of slow torture to tempt it out. 

As for his parents…

He just hoped against hope his mother was still alive.

He’d given up on his father the moment he’d been doled out an extended sentence in Azkaban. The thought filled him with nothing more than a numb ache where his all of guilt used to lie. Now that place was rotten. Discarded. Repulsive. 

These were the thoughts that circled around Draco’s head as the days passed in the dark, empty drawing room and his Curse became louder and more incessant in his chest. 

The lunacy of the situation was beginning to make Draco fantasise about Harry turning up out of the blue to rescue him. Or if not rescue him, then at least climb in through the locked window to snog him senseless before making a quick escape. It was ridiculous and at the same time the only thing keeping Draco sane. He couldn’t stop picturing it, trying desperately to recreate the feeling of Harry just… _ kissing _ him. It still didn’t feel real, even all these months later, and Draco was reluctant to believe it could ever happen again, even if they miraculously did make it out of this alive. After all, so much time had passed. Who was to say Harry even _ liked _him anymore? He could imagine the conversation now:

_ “Yeah… I mean… we spent a lot of time together. Things like this happen, I guess. I snogged Ron once too, you know. But now I’m marrying his sister. Come to the wedding!” _

Draco was quite sure he’d rather watch Voldemort marry his fucking snake. 

Regardless of the dwindling possibility of Harry ever allowing such an exchange to come to pass again, Draco let himself picture what he wanted. In this prison, it was all he had.

He couldn’t see how it could get much worse than this.

  
  



	20. Smoke and Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There are some quite graphic depictions of torture in this chapter - I am going through this whole fic and compiling a list of possible trigger warnings that I will add as an extra chapter at the end, but for now this seemed like a necessary warning.  
It happens soon after a Crucio has been cast so just bear that in mind if you want to avoid it! I will add a paragraph break line when the depiction starts and ends, so you can skip ahead if you need! If anyone has any other issues with anything, drop me a line and I’ll add a warning or make an amendment.

Draco was losing the days.There was no light save for the thin strip of a cold _ Lumos _that glowed from the hallway under his door. The difference between morning and night becoming insignificant as Voldemort continued his slow, methodical torture on Draco’s psyche. He could never tell how long he’d slept for or for how long he was awake, and he didn’t see another soul for days and days on end. Food was brought to him while he was asleep, and the isolation was becoming unbearable. His Curse rattled with need when he inhaled, banging against the prison of his ribcage with relentless determination. 

“Just wait…” Draco told it one night, almost soothing it, “Not now. Please.”

It was this moment, the first time Draco had spoken in days and days, that he heard a scuffle and a light gasp outside his door. 

Slumped against the wall beneath the boarded up window, Draco curled into himself and held his breath. He could handle torture - physical pain was little more than an inconvenience to him now. It was just his fucking _ Curse. _

Three methodical clicks sounded as the door was magically unlocked, and it swung open an inch, allowing more of that cold _ Lumos _light to pour in. 

Draco braced himself for the appearance of Greyback, or Yaxley, or his Aunt, or even the Dark Lord again - but the pale, round face he saw appear at the door, eyes round with surprise, was startlingly familiar. It was a face he’d shared a dorm with for the past six years. 

_ “Goyle?!” _He exclaimed, sure he’d begun to hallucinate. Though why his brain decided to conjure Greg’s face out of all of them was a mystery. 

“Shh!” Greg whispered back, his expression morphing into panic. “Someone will hear you.” 

Draco blinked. “Cast a _ Muffliato_, then.” 

Judging by Greg’s momentarily blank expression, this was definitely real.

“Oh… yeah…” Greg disappeared to whisper the spell into the corridor outside before opening the door with a little more confidence. “I thought I was dreaming when I heard your voice just now.”

“Gregory, what the fuck are you doing here?” Draco shout-whispered, knowing all too well not to trust his dorm-mate’s spell-casting abilities. 

“What do you think? My dad came to get me as soon as the shit hit the fan.” Said Greg miserably. “I didn’t even know Dumbledore was dead by the time he appeared.” 

Draco slapped his forehead. “_ Fuck_, I _ told _Theo and Blaise to get out”-

“They did.” Greg continued in the same tone, one that told Draco he’d had plenty of time to accept the events that had led him here, “Didn’t waste a second, did they? No one can find them. Thought they’d scarpered off with you, to be honest.” 

Draco processed this. “They left you?” 

Greg gave a one-shouldered shrug. “They probably didn’t see it like that, but… yeah. I suppose they did.” 

“Self absorbed little twats. I told them to warn you.” Draco spat, _ feeling _ it - grateful to be feeling something other than desolate numbness - even if it was because his so-called friends were _ idiots_. 

Greg cracked a small, dim smile. “Not much we can do about it now, eh?” He peered into the gloomy old drawing room with a frown. “You mean to tell me they’ve had me guarding you this whole time? And they didn’t even tell me?” 

“You didn’t think to check?” Draco raised a brow, though he doubted Greg could see him in the dark. 

Greg scratched his head, sitting on the floor in the open doorway with a huff. 

“We don’t question orders. It’s rule one around here. Thought you’d have known that.” He replied pointedly. 

_ Touché. _“Yeah. ‘Spose I did know that. Can’t say I feel the same way anymore.” 

Greg grimaced. “I didn’t think they’d hold you hostage… I mean, Dumbledore is still dead. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

Draco shook his head, the intricacies of the Dark Lord’s twisted mind and his plan for Draco beyond him. It must have looked so simple from Greg’s point of view - Draco was a deserter, nothing more, and he’d been too scared to carry out his _ one _task - one any other Death Eater would have begged to perform. It was nice of him to feel sorry for Draco, at least. If he was in Greg’s shoes, he was sure he would never have the patience to be so kind. 

“What about Crabbe?” He asked. 

Greg’s expression turned dark. “He was here for a while. He’s back at Hogwarts now, helping the Carrows and stuff. I could have gone, but…” he shivered, his hulking frame hunching inwards, “I didn’t want to.”

“Don’t blame you, mate.”

“They don’t make me do too much here,” Greg snorted, “As you can probably tell.” 

“Bit fucked up that they’ve got you guarding me, isn’t it?” 

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Bit fucked up.”

“But for what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you.” Said Draco, meaning it, the sight of a friendly face more refreshing to him than he could have thought possible. He thought of the small ways Greg had helped him last year, namely lending him as much Dreamless Sleep as he wanted when the pressure of his Curse and his task kept him from sleep. He’d never really asked, either. Never pried. 

Greg gave another one of his sad smiles, and once again, Draco felt a stab of guilt for the way he’d treated his friend over the years. He was slowly learning that not everyone who didn’t think the same way as him was stupid. 

“I would say I’m glad you’re here, but… anyway.” 

He didn’t need to elaborate. 

* * *

Draco did not fail to notice the increase in food portions over the next few days. When the floorboards stopped creaking and the low mumble of voices through the house fell silent, sometimes Greg risked peeking his head around the door to check up on Draco - he was sure he even did so sometimes when he was asleep. The comfort this alone brought was tremendous, and though his Curse still shook his nerves with a force close to breaking point, Draco felt strong enough to hold on knowing he wasn’t completely alone. For a little longer at least.

This period did not last long. Only a few days later, Draco was blessed with the presence of none other than Yaxley. 

The hard-faced man sauntered into the room, sucking his teeth and peering down at Draco with a disgust he made no effort to disguise. 

“Well, well, well,” He said, tutting and wagging his finger, “Look a’ yer.” 

Draco scowled up at him, already preparing himself for the taunts that were sure to arrive. 

“Yer really thought you could come snivelling back and we’d welcome yer with open arms, hm?” He barked a laugh, displaying a row of rotten teeth. It seemed everyone who remained with the Dark Lord allowed their appearance to deteriorate along with their soul. Draco was glad he’d left for the sake of his personal hygiene alone at this point. “Yer scum, Malfoy. Just like yer father.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, “Spare me the hate speech, you mongrel”-

A vicious kick to his side sent him sprawling, and his Curse practically jumped. If the tingling along his legs was anything to go by, scales had already begun to spring up over his body. He grit his teeth and shut his eyes, willing it to calm down. 

“Oh, c’moooon,” Yaxley scorned, mistaking Draco’s expression of concentration for one of agony, “thought you were tougher ‘n this, ey? Even your da’ lasted longer before he started whimpering like a”-

“Yaxley.” Came a nasally bark from the doorway. “The Dark Lord won’t be kept waiting. Retrieve him.” 

Yaxley snarled, hauling Draco roughly upright and shoving him towards the doorway. His side hurt, but it was nothing compared to the way the Curse was traversing the length of his entire body, setting his spine alight and rising into his mouth as if shouting _ I’m ready! Let me defend you! _

He locked eyes with Greg as Yaxley dragged him down the corridor. Pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear, he knew Greg was trying to silently communicate an apology. Draco tried to tell him, wordlessly, that there was nothing he could do - but it was all happening so fast. 

Yaxley and Rowle did not escort Draco to the sitting room as he’d suspected. Instead, they bypassed the warped row of doors and headed straight for the front entrance where a legion of Death Eaters awaited, all gazing upon Draco with sneers and disdain. The clouds outside were the same, dark, foreboding grey as always. It was impossible to tell if it was morning or nearly night.

His heart began to hammer with panic, and he couldn’t stop himself from stammering,

“Wh-where are you taking me?” 

Yaxley did not answer. With an even rougher hand, he threw Draco outside of his own front door and onto the sharp, gravel courtyard leading to the gates. For an insane second, he thought he was being released.

A pressure, hard and muscle-bound against his leg, told him otherwise. 

Nagini prevented Draco from scrambling to his feet, her enormous weight pushing him down as she slithered over his back and brought her tongue to his ear. 

_ “He’ssssss going to break…” _

It was the same as it had been over a year ago in his bedroom, a voice that communicated directly with his Curse - only this time Draco couldn’t be sure if it was addressing him or the man walking barefoot towards him. 

“Good evening, Draco.” The Dark Lord hissed, as if mimicking his snake’s voice. “I had rather hoped you were going to be more useful, but it seems my original plan has expired.” 

From where he was being restrained on the ground, Draco could only lift his head so much. Just enough to gaze up into a pair of slit, red-eyes, alight with excitement - not the fury he’d expected.

_ He knew… fuck, he knew… _

Even now, Draco dared to hope:

“Are you gonna kill me then or what?” He rasped, hoping to provoke enough of a reaction for him to just _ end it _. He wanted it to be fucking over. It was better than the alternative. 

His insolent demand drew gasps and mutters of shock from the other Death Eaters around them, and a high laugh from Voldemort. 

“You have changed your tune, Draco. I expected nothing but pleas for your pathetic little life, but you surprise me. Perhaps... you will surprise me again.” 

The Dark Lord raised his wand, and Draco shut his eyes tight as every instinct in him rose to _ fight _, but he told himself:

It would be better this way. If he died, no one else had to suffer on his behalf. There would never be a risk of anyone else finding out. And, as he prepared for his last moment on Earth, he pictured his mother and the goodbye he never got to give - and then, out of the blue, he pictured Harry’s eyes gazing directly into his. He heard his laughter ringing out in the Room of Requirement, and the faint timbre of the song they would listen to-

_ “Crucio!” _

_ Fuck- _

The Unforgivable Curse ripped through Draco’s body at lightning speed, but the pain stopped short as scales manifested, diamond-hard and faster than the _ Crucio _itself could travel, on his torso, his legs and arms, before creeping up to his neck. 

Draco’s screams stopped as his Curse shielded him from the worst of the spell, and he saw the ground clearly again. 

The courtyard was silent as Death Eaters waited with bated breath. 

The Dark Lord’s wand was poised, a red glow emanating from its tip - the spell was still supposed to be working. And it _ was _, but the pain was nothing compared to what it should have been.

Draco realised he should have just faked the reaction, should have kept up his screams, as Voldemort’s expression turned to one of disturbing glee. He bore his teeth, and the pit of dread in Draco’s stomach reached infinite depths. 

“Interesting…” He mused, lowering his wand. Nagini relinquished Draco from her crushing weight, and slid along the gravel to join her master and peer down at Draco with knowing eyes. 

She hadn’t told her Master Draco’s secret, he gathered that much from her… well, he couldn’t really call it an _ expression _, but her demeanour was all for showing him that she hadn’t even needed to spill his secret. The Dark Lord had figured it all out for himself, because Draco was crap at controlling himself and covering his tracks. 

Voldemort took a few paces around the spot where Draco knelt, his elongated hand brushing his chin in apparent deep thought. Or at least the pretence of deep thought for the sake of their audience. 

“When I asked Rowle and Greyback to monitor the Peak District, the bursts of magic they detected were frequent. Every eleven days, at almost the exact same time, without fail.”

Draco remembered Harry teasing him for his “ridiculous sense of routine.” He’d said it was something that would always give him away. 

He’d been right. 

And Draco hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it. 

There was no use arguing or trying to come up with some kind of excuse. All he could do was wait, panting with exertion as he feebly held onto his last remnants of self control. 

“So you can imagine my surprise when, after they found _ you, _there were no more bursts of unexplained magic in that area. Eleven days came and went, didn’t they? Then another and another and still… nothing. No Dragon. Could you tell me why that could be, Draco? Did you, in honour of your namesake, murder this poor helpless creature which you claimed to have wanted to bring to me?”

He looked at Draco, mockingly, for an answer. 

Draco remained silent, and forced himself to glare right back into the Dark Lord’s eyes; an action he’d been so terrified of last year. For good reason. The fucker was ugly as sin. If the students from Beauxbatons had been right about anything, it was that. It should be a criminal offence to be so ugly. The amusement at this thought must have shown on his face, because Voldemort’s expression twitched. 

He stopped pacing and leaned into Draco’s face.

“Or did you bring it with you?”

It took all of Draco’s restraint not to speak, not to cower or run. He knew the second he did, the Curse would bolt free from his body. 

Without warning, Voldemort lashed out and grasped Draco by the roots of his hair, yanking him to a stand. 

Draco grunted his protest at the sudden bite of pain at his scalp, but he was released a second later. 

“You were so talkative only moments ago,” Voldemort continued, his tone manic, “do you need an incentive, Draco? Because we can certainly give you one!”

All it took was a look from their master for two of the Death Eaters to depart, marching into the house.

Draco was surrounded by hooded figures, swarming around his vision like moths. He couldn’t run if he tried. But he could _fly. _Would he have _time _to transform and make his escape? As this very thought occurred, the Death Eaters returned.

And they were not alone. 

At the first flash of blond hair and the hunched over figure it was attached to, Draco experienced a panic unlike any other that had come before it. His mother followed, dragged by her elbow into the courtyard by another masked brute. Initially, she kept her head bowed, but upon seeing Draco in the middle of the courtyard, her face crumpled into one of anguish and pure love. It broke him.

“Please. Not them.” He found himself begging before he could help it. The look of relish on Voldemort’s face told him this was exactly what he’d wanted. His mother and father were manhandled to a spot a few metres opposite Draco and shoved to their knees. His father didn’t lift his head. His hair hung over his face in a lank, unkempt curtain. But Narcissa kept her gaze firmly on Draco, even now trying to comfort him as she poured all her love silently across the impenetrable space between them.

_ I’m sorry, _he mouthed. She shook her head minutely, as if to dismiss any apology he could make, as if she were embracing him like she did when he was a child when the nightmares began. 

* * *

“You know what you are.” The Dark Lord breathed next to his ear as one Death Eater took one of Lucius’ limp arms and held it, outstretched, splaying his palm open. 

“What are you doing to do? Please… don’t hurt them.” Draco whispered, unable to comprehend any semblance of shame as tears of dread began to fall. 

There was a short silence, and then a stomach clenching _ snap _echoed across the courtyard as the Death Eater broke one of Lucius’ fingers. His father barely let out a whimper, having probably already been through all sorts of torture, but the noise made Draco cry out and clap a hand over his mouth. His mother shut her eyes, her dark brows knotted in pain as she listened to another of her husband’s fingers break.

_ Snap! _

_ They weren’t even using magic. _

“You know what you are. Tell me and this will all end.”

Narcissa opened her eyes, her silent plea for him not to expose himself the only thing stopping him from giving in then and there as the masked Death Eater continued to break every finger on his father’s left hand. When that one was spent, bent into an unrecognisable shape, they took hold of his other hand. 

“I’m not anything!” Draco yelled desperately as another awful crunch reverberated through the space. “Stop, you’ve got it wrong!”

Lucius cried out as the Death Eater resorted to snapping the entirety of his wrist in a cold, brutal act that would haunt Draco forever. 

* * *

“You can save your parents, Draco,” Voldemort whispered, “You can stop this. Do you want them to die? Because I will kill them, Draco. Slowly… painfully…”

The brute who held his mother wrenched her head back by her hair, exposing her throat. She made a short sound of surprise, and the effect it had on his Curse was astronomical. His whole body blazed with tangible heat, and there was no way Voldemort didn’t feel it. 

Draco grit his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might break as the Death Eater touched the tip of his wand to her throat. 

_ “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HER!” _He screamed, and within that scream was a quality to his voice that wasn’t human. It came from deep within his chest, from the place he could no longer keep guarded. 

He felt, rather than saw the Dark Lord retreat a few paces back, but the looks of horror on the Death Eaters’ faces he could see confirmed what he already knew. They had all heard it. 

_ “Sssssssuch a shame…” _ Came Nagini’s taunting hiss, _ “I thought you would lasssst… longer…” _

Like a thin cord that was about to break, Draco’s resolve fought on its last possible nerve to keep from transforming. He was already covered, almost to his neck, in scales. The pain of it was far worse than the initial sear of the _ Crucio _. He fell back to his tired knees with the effort, his human body giving up as the Dragon loomed to take over.

Glimpses of his mother's tears making tracks down her white, gaunt face while his father lay shivering on the ground beside her prevailed above all else, even the Dark Lord himself who was running circles around Draco with that same, frantic glee.

“Prepare, my friends, for you are about to witness an awakening of Ancient Magic - its form among the most sacred and rare of them all,” He addressed the retreating crowd of Death Eaters as they fled to the walls of the house. 

Draco’s arms were wrapped around his torso, crushing with all his strength in a futile effort to hold it all inside. 

“No… I won’t… I won’t…” He said out loud, no longer only addressing his Curse.

Voldemort gave a low, threatening laugh. “Oh, but you _ will _ .” He raised his wand once more, and a thin trail of black smoke began to pour from its tip whilst he uttered a stream of incantations - fast, and unfamiliar to Draco’s ears - but his Curse answered them, blooming to the surface and breaking the cord, setting his skin alight as the scales covered every last inch left of it and his wings burst free from his back. It was violent and non-consensual, an agonising transformation that felt so repulsively _ wrong _. As the transformation was wrenched from him, Draco felt as if his spine would break as he bent backwards, almost double, his tail snaking free as his limbs grew and changed. It was a disjointed, mismatched process; the opposite of the usual fluidity that came so naturally to him when he allowed himself to do this. It felt as if it would never end, and when it finally did, he felt bent out of shape, too big for his own courtyard as he loomed over the three figures before him in an uncomfortable stand - his parents, and the monster who’d done this to him. 

It was now or never. 

Despite the pain that ravaged his body, Draco spread his wings and prepared for flight - if he timed it correctly, he could grasp his mother between his talons and take her too. It would be dangerous, but he could do it. 

It only took one beat of his wings to get off the ground. He prepared to grab her, her eyes widening with panic as she realized what he was about to do, but before he could, he was wrenched backwards with tremendous force -

He looked down at his legs, his wings still beating frantically but getting him no higher, and watched as thick, silver chains bound themselves tight around him, conjured from Voldemort’s own wand. He had no choice but to fall as the biting metal reeled him in, landing painfully on his back in a sprawl, tangling his wings and legs with the horrific neverending chains. Around him he heard shouts as the Death Eaters swarmed, throwing up shielding charms, a couple of them even landing a couple of stunning spells only to have them bounce straight back off Draco’s scales. In a desperate attempt to escape, he tried to change his size - to become smaller and wriggle out of the chains, but they shrunk with him.

The Dark Lord’s jeering laughs peeled like bells in Draco’s oversensitive ears.

“It’s true! The Dragon _ can _change its size! I see you were not lying about that, Draco.” 

Draco thrashed and turned, spewing out a plume of thick, orange flame at the first group of Death Eaters he saw. About ten shield charms went up at once, deflecting the heat and flame into thin air. 

The more Draco fought, the tighter the chains clamped down on him, breaking into his scales with an awful crunch, like bark being split. He screamed at the frustration, at the pain, at the hopelessness - and the sound that emitted from his throat was one of pure, animalistic terror.

Narcissa was sobbing. In the mess and chaos of dozens of bodies around him, he could not see her. But he could hear her cries above everything else. 

He’d failed. 

  
  


*

Hermione turned off the radio with a heartfelt sigh. 

“The Death Eaters are oddly quiet. There haven’t been any new attacks in days.” She frowned.

Ron glanced between her and Harry’s grim expressions. 

“Surely that’s a _ good _thing?” 

Harry shook his head, feeling more hopeless in recent weeks than he had since before Christmas. 

“The Death Eaters? Quiet? Can only mean they’re planning something awful, mate.”

Ron grimaced.

“Harry is right…” Said Hermione, “You-Know-Who hasn’t _ actually _been sighted in months. It’s all just hearsay from his followers.” She looked at Harry. “Unless you’ve had another vision.” 

Harry shook his head. His vision of Draco from Voldemort’s perspective had kept him going for almost two weeks straight. They’d tried to think of every possible place they were keeping him, opting to rescue Draco as soon as they had a solid enough plan, but it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Harry had revisited the details of that vision time and time again, trying to recreate the room, the faint outline of the floor Draco had been kneeling on, the temperature of it, everything they could possibly think of until they’d been forced to conclude that it simply wasn’t doable yet. They didn’t have enough information. Harry had consequently dedicated much of his energy into trying to force another connection between him and Voldemort to take place - one thing he _ never _thought he would willingly do. Not since Sirius had been killed because of this very same thing. 

Hermione had suggested it could have been a trick, just as it had been then, but Harry knew the difference by now. He knew Draco better than he’d ever known Sirius, and the nuances of fear in his expression were far too familiar, and spoke volumes of things Voldemort couldn’t possibly have known about. 

“Maybe it’s because of Draco.” Said Harry, hating himself for saying it out loud. 

“What is?” 

“The silence. Maybe they’ve”- he swallowed thickly, “found out.” 

A horror-filled silence followed his statement. 

“We don’t know that.” Hermione tried, her voice quiet and small. 

“But it _ will _happen, Hermione! I don’t even know how long he’s been prisoner for, but by now it will be long enough to have - to have”- he composed himself, gripping the back of his chair to keep from pacing in frantic lines up and down the tent. “To have broken him.” He finished. 

Harry had seen what Draco was like when his Curse was at the end of its tether. How waspish and on edge he’d always become, how even the slightest touch made him flinch and burn up like someone dying of a fever, how his eyes became pools that seemed to contain all of magic itself, the power sinking low in their depths too much for Harry to fully comprehend. He used to think he’d been the only one to see it, but that had only been because no one else was looking.

They were sure to be looking now. 

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance, and he knew they were thinking it too. Nevertheless, Hermione tried:

“We don’t know that yet, Harry. Okay? I get it. This is… disturbing. But it might not mean anything of the sort. For all we know, Draco could have escaped. Either way, there’s no point in panicking about it until we can know for sure.”

Despite his fear and the feeling of _ knowing _that Harry intrinsically and inexplicably possessed, he knew she was right. There truly was nothing they could do. Their hunt for the next Horcrux was an impending cloud above their heads, and for as long as they didn’t know where Draco was either, they couldn’t just drop it all to go searching for him - a search that could take months. A search that could hurt him more in the long run if they didn’t find a way to kill Voldemort. 

Even so, the feeling of unease lingered, and Harry knew this was going to be another sleepless night. 

*

Draco never thought he’d crave refuge from the dark, old drawing room, but after the next few days, he did. He didn’t dare transform back - he wasn’t even sure if he _ could _ ; his Curse clung to his bones like armour, his scales reinforcing themselves as his primary skin to protect him, sensing the miasma of threat that loomed over the Manor. They kept Draco outside, on the edge of the woods on the Malloy estate, and he was always, _ always _chained. 

“You were never loyal to me, Draco.” The Dark Lord had whispered, soft and malicious as Draco lay, his wings shielding his body like a blanket, on the cold, hard earth. “If you had been, you would have given all of yourself to me. Think what we could have done with this power on our side, think how much _ sooner _we could have taken Hogwarts. Your parents failed us all when they kept this to themselves, and then you, who’d had so much potential, could do nothing more than follow in their footsteps and hoard this wealth all for your own. Imagine how beautiful you could have been, Draco, with me as your mentor. Imagine how much more powerful you would have become. Instead, you’ve left me no choice but to let you cower in the dirt like a beast.” He’d twirled the unusual, strangely familiar wand in his hands then, inspecting it with displeasure, “I will tame this wand, my friend, and I will also tame you. I promised I would make you devote yourself to me again, and I aim to keep that promise.”

Draco, bound by his chains to the earth, had snarled, knowing hurling fire at him would be a useless act. He’d tried that on so many Death Eaters already, and none had hesitated to counter him with a shield charm and then, usually, something worse. As immune as Draco’s Dragon form was to mediocre spells, the stronger stinging charms still hurt. Once the Death Eaters noticed the gouges they made in Draco’s scales, they began to use them liberally. 

He’d loved these woods as a child. His mother had grown all manner of magical plants in here, many of them illegal; not that it had stopped her. He’d come to Hogwarts prepared for Potions because of these woods, because of the ingredients he’d already seen sprouting under their oaks and sycamores, or around the edges of the large pond they kept to the North of where he was kept prisoner now. Now these woods would be the backdrop to memories that would haunt him for the rest of his life if he survived this. It dawned on him, slowly, that if he made it out alive, he would never make it home. It was too twisted; transformed into a place of darkness and imprisonment. It could never be his home again. 

Draco knew there was a plan for him down the line, but more often than not Voldemort seemed to be away from the manor - no doubt busy terrorising muggles and ministry officials with threats and displays of dark magic. But whenever he did come, he’d promise Draco that soon he’d be part of the war. That soon, Draco would be an unrecognisable monster capable of unimaginable feats of power. 

Draco doubted this. He’d take the Death Eater’s torture and sport for as long as necessary, but he would never, _ ever _become a weapon. 

Draco was not naïve. He’d already thought of a dozen ways Voldemort might force him into servitude without his consent, and that was only through the methods that Draco could think of. Who knew what other nasty tricks The Dark Lord had up his sleeve? Try as he might, he could not recognise the grisly incantation Voldemort had used to force a transformation out of him. He remembered how it had _ felt, _and all he could do was pray to every saint in his vocabulary that it would never happen again. But he was learning not to remain too optimistic. 

His aunt had come for a visit, too, and that was up there with one of the worst moments of his life. Her disgust and accompanying relish at discovering Draco’s curse had led to an onslaught of taunts, manically crazed laughter, and torture. Bellatrix saw it fit to try out every vile spell she knew against Draco in what she called a “personal experiment.” Thankfully for him, most of the spells that would have done internal damage didn’t work. His scales protected him from the worst of that. But others, those akin to stinging and gouging charms, worked a treat for her, just as they had for the others. But Aunt Bella, being a maniacal cow, took it a step further. She’d remarked on how his blood was scarlet, not blue or purple or green as she’d expected, but as red as her own. This human element to Draco’s form seemed to amuse her greatly, and she wasted no time in gleaning all the pleasure she could through her experimentation on him. By the time Bellatrix got bored, Draco was left bleeding in the dirt, too exhausted from the pain and the screaming to register the depth of his injuries. He healed fast in his Dragon form usually, but whatever his sadistic aunt had done to him lasted for days on end. Perhaps it was a lack of food that was preventing Draco from healing properly. All he could find to eat were birds he snatched from the air as they flew past, or rodents that skittered past his claws. 

Time was, once again, meaningless, and Draco could barely summon the strength to lift his head from the ground when his next visitors came. 

There were sounds of a struggle, and the nasal voice of Rowle came into earshot. 

“This will be much worse for you if you carry on fighting us.” He snapped at whatever helpless prisoner he dragged along with him. 

It did not come as a surprise to Draco that Voldemort accompanied them. 

_ “Hello, Dragon…” _

Draco glanced upward at the small crowd as Nagini made herself known to him.

_ “Bitch.” _Draco said back, amazed at how easily the non-verbal communication came to him. 

Nagini recoiled in surprise, wrapping herself around her master’s torso. Now that he was somewhat roused from his slump, Draco made every effort not to look weak and dragged himself up onto his haunches, surveying the group. 

The usuals were here - Rowle, Bellatrix, Yaxley and Greyback. But there was another, unexpected addition to the group, clutched between them as a prisoner.

Luna Lovegood. 

Draco locked eyes with her wide, silver fearful ones. There was a nasty cut along the right side of her face and she looked like she hadn’t seen a bath in some time. But she recognised him instantly.

“Draco.” She breathed. There wasn’t even a question in her voice. 

Bellatrix snatched Luna’s small face, forcing her to look at her. 

“Did you know about this, girlie? Did you know my nephew was an abomination?” She screeched. 

Draco rose to full height, snarling. _ “Of course she didn’t know!” _

Only Nagini heard him, but she responded, hissing his words in Voldemort’s ear.

“Draco says she did not.” Voldemort mused, watching this all play out as though it was happening exactly as he’d imagined. “The Lovegood traitor has some talent as a sight-seer, I believe.” 

If Luna was scared for her life, she hid it well. Bellatrix released her with a harsh _ tut _and she remained still and oddly calm as she gazed at Draco, taking in the extent of the damage to his scales with watchful eyes. He was grateful for the lack of sympathy in her expression. He didn’t think he could stand it if she pitied him. 

_ A sight-seer? _ He thought, not entirely clear on the term but knowing in this case it didn’t refer to a simple tourist. 

Voldemort came to stand between him and Luna.

“Are you losing your resolve yet, Draco?” He grinned. A horrible sight. “Burning through your last reserves, as it were?”

As if trained to recognise their cue, the Death Eaters tittered. 

“Your parents are still alive.”

Draco let his mask slip, just for a second, but it was enough. The red eyes flashed. 

“And if you cooperate, I may even let them walk free.” He waited for Draco’s reaction, and Draco tried not to let on just how hard his heart had started beating. “As for these powers of yours, I wish to test their effectiveness.”

The Dark Lord paced to a safe distance, and Luna was shoved forward. 

“Burn her.” He ordered. 

Luna’s face became even more pale as the blood drained from it, her lips almost blue in the faint moonlight that sifted through the trees. 

For some reason, Draco’s first thought was _ “But she’s my cousin,” _a thought so loud that Nagini heard it, 

Her laughter came as a juddering hiss, and as he feared, Nagini translated his thought aloud to her master. Voldemort’s cruel bark of amusement filled the clearing.

“Concerned for your bloodline, Draco? How very predictable of you. If I were you, I would see this as a cleansing. The Lovegood’s have brought nothing but shame to the pureblood legacy. Their dallyings with muggles and uncouth magic are a testament to that, surely.”

Draco could not look away from Luna’s eyes, could not bring himself to listen to what Voldemort was saying. Because they were thoughts he himself had harboured about her less than a year ago. In all honesty, he hadn’t given her a second thought since his escape. The most significance Luna Lovegood had ever borne to him was through her connection to Astoria. Astoria _ loved _her. That couldn’t mean nothing. Astoria was nothing if not picky.

“You wouldn’t like to see yer poor mammy hurt, would ye?” Yaxley leered, tossing in a taunt of his own. 

Draco growled. The sound was weaker than before, but the ground still trembled beneath them with the force of it.

“Your _ fire, _Draco! I am becoming impatient!” 

Luna shut her eyes, as if accepting her death, as if believing Draco would burn her to a crisp. 

_ “You want to see fire?” _ He thought very deliberately, _ “I’ll show you fire.” _

With the remaining energy he had left, Draco kindled a pit of heat in his chest, felt it rise in his throat until it was ready. 

Luna tensed her shoulders, hugging her arms around herself. Rowle stood a metre behind her, his eyes glassy with awe, a grin plastered across his smug, nasally face. 

He was a foul man, but more importantly, he was unprepared. 

Draco aimed his fire, and threw it in one, hurtling ball of white-hot flame. It hit its target. 

Rowle barely had time to scream before he was turned to ashes, cremated by the sheer, unfathomable heat of Draco’s fire. 

In the same instant, Draco’s Curse began responding to another power. That _ damned spell, _uttered from Voldemort’s lips in a stream of intricate incantations, and Draco’s form had no choice but to do as it was bid. Whereas the first time he had felt everything exploding from within him, this time, it was as if he was being compressed - shoved into a space tighter than air with no room to cry out or breathe or fight it. It was mere seconds before he was human again, and the angry shouts of Greyback and Yaxley were the first to reach his ears. Bellatrix was shrieking and hurling obscenities Draco’s way, which came as no surprise. 

A black, charred circle of earth sizzled where Draco had burnt Rowle to a crisp, and Luna stood barely feet away, her mouth open wide with shock as if she couldn’t quite believe she was still alive. 

Draco would suffer for this, he knew it. If Voldemort’s expression of bitter rage was anything to go by, he knew he should probably feel more fear than he had in his life. But he couldn’t bring himself to. He was exhausted, sure he’d used all his fear up by now. Instead, naked and shivering in the dirt, still chained and without an ounce of pride left to his name, all Draco could do was smirk back through the screen of smoke and ash at the man who had done this to him. 

“Fuck you.” He spat, his throat stripped and bare. It occurred to him, before he lost consciousness, that he’d uttered those two words to the two most powerful wizards of his time. At the very least, he could take that to the grave. 


	21. Hartest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long! After another lockdown was enforced here (UK) I unfortunately got Covid-19, and I got it pretty badly. It's taken me quite a long time to recover, and I'm loving that I can finally stare at a screen again without getting a splitting headache. I was lucky, and came out okay! So okay, in fact, that I took the liberty of doing some en masse editing of this thing and now the ending has changed quite a lot, so I've changed a lot of non-published chapters (including this one) to fit with it better, and I'm so glad I did! I'll change some of the tags to fit with future chapters better, too, but don't worry - you'll still get a happy ending. I feel like it's important to mention that, especially at this point in the story, which is probably entering it's most brutal point if I'm being honest. Thank you so much for sticking with the story so far. Had things not been the way they were, this would all have been finished and published months ago, but alas life really is just...LIKE THAT. As always, your support and comments mean more to me than you can possibly know. The reactions to every chapter truly make me so happy every time, and I can't thank commenters enough for that! Thank you ^_^
> 
> *CANON DIVERGENCE - to avoid confusion (even though it is explained in this chapter) Harry ends up in Andromeda's house after his time in Malfoy Manor, NOT Bill and Fleur's cottage, however they will end up there soon. I've kept fairly on beat with a lot of the canon in terms of locations + events so far, but this is quite a big divergence so I wanted to clear that up!

A new recruit took the Mark. Draco heard the shouts from the forest - the echoed chants of all the Death Eaters who weren’t stationed elsewhere ringing out in a hollow, deep chorus from the manor. 

He’d been given a pair of trousers, but no shirt or socks or shoes. Exhausted from his transformation, Draco found himself stuck in his human form, forced to crouch among thawing dead leaves and against the rough bark of the nearest tree. Warmth evaded him. Winter had barely ended. At the very most, when his lips turned blue and he was shivering so violently that it rustled the leaves, he was granted the merest warming charm, cloaking him in a meagre, but needed rush of tepid air. Greg guarded him, but not alone. He suspected the others didn’t trust him not to be kinder to Draco, and after incinerating Rowle on the spot, he was to be guarded at all times by at least three Death Eaters. 

Yaxley would often glare at Draco from a safe distance, his lips a thin line of suppressed rage and hatred, but he said nothing. None of the Death Eaters did. They were scared of him now, Draco realized, and he wasn’t sure whether to be comforted or disturbed by that fact. But at least the torture had stopped. 

Now Draco’s thoughts lingered on the stretch of uncertainty before him, on the myriad of possibilities - none of them good. 

Tonight, that uncertainty was palpable in the communal cheers heard roaring from the manor, and then louder as the party moved outside. 

The two other masked Death Eaters guarding Draco stood simultaneously as the sounds drew closer. Greg, who had been sat, pale-faced and still, threw an apprehensive glance Draco’s way before following suit. 

“Please don’t let them come here…” Draco’s lips moved on their own as he drew his bare arms tighter around himself and hunched closer to the tree, enchanted chains clanking. 

“Keep your mouth _ shut_, boy.” One of the Death Eaters snapped - presumably one who hadn’t seen Draco reduce Rowle to ashes, or he was sure he wouldn’t be speaking to him like that. 

Draco watched Greg, whose hands were shaking by his sides as he visibly gulped in fear. He wouldn’t last long like this, Draco thought. Fear, he knew, was the real killer amongst Death Eater ranks. It was how the Dark Lord sorted the weak from the strong. But usually those he deemed strong enough were either too stupid or too insane to even understand the concept of fear. Or, in Draco’s case, too far gone. Fear had fused to his soul. It wasn’t something he felt so much as lived, now. Whether that made him strong or weak, well… it didn’t matter. All he had left was his will. No wand, no freedom, and no one to rescue him, he thought bitterly. 

The Dark Lord and his procession of masked followers broke through the trees and into view, their white, ceramic faces gleaming like wraiths in the gloom. 

Draco squinted between each of them, looking for the new recruit, but they were indeterminable amongst the sea of masks and black robes. 

Bellatrix was the only one not masked and robed. Like her master, she had opted to skip through the forest barefoot, her lunacy burning all the brighter in her distinction from the rest of them. 

Voldemort came to a halt in front of the two, primary guards, who bowed deeply upon his arrival. Greg fell to his knees in a graceless slump, trembling and keeping his head bowed.

“My friends,” Voldemort addressed them, “A new compatriot has joined our ranks on this blessed evening.”

At this, the army of Death Eaters behind him cheered. Bellatrix screeched the loudest, surrounding a smaller Death Eater with an unconventionally slight frame… 

It couldn’t be… a _ child_, could it? Draco thought, horrified, momentarily forgetting that he’d been a child himself when he’d taken the mark. 

Bellatrix hugged them, making _ squeeing _sounds and fussing over the new recruit. 

Voldemort’s crimson slits fell on Draco, his lipless mouth curling upwards in pleasure. 

“Would you like to meet them, Draco? I know they’re _ very _anxious to see you again.” 

Draco tried not to react as his mind tied itself in knots trying to work out who it could be. To see him _ again? _He studied the silhouette, the heavy rise and fall of their chest and the wand, too far away to catch the details of, clutched in their small, pale fist. 

Bellatrix cackled, nudging the new recruit forward. “Go on. Put the traitor out of his misery and show him how magnificent you’ve become.” 

The Death Eater approached with a slight stumble, but righted themselves, shoulders pushed back proudly. 

_ Theo_? Draco almost panicked. But Theo was taller than whoever this was - gangly and lanky with a terrible posture he’d recognize from a mile away. 

Voldemort’s expression remained locked on that same, infantile glee as the new Death Eater removed their mask. 

“_Draco._” Spat Pansy Parkinson, her small, freckled face turned grey with the unmistakable pallor of someone who’d been in the Dark Lord’s presence for too long. She sneered, surveying Draco. “Merlin... you’re like a pig in the mud.” 

Draco couldn’t help the expression of incredulous disgust he felt passing over his own features. So, Pansy had taken the mark. Of-fucking-course she had. 

“You _ idiot_.” Was all he could find within himself to shakily bite back, the cold marring the very real derision he threw her way. 

Greg slowly rose from where he knelt, looking back and forth between Pansy and Draco with unbridled shock.

Pansy threw back her head and laughed. Her teeth had turned yellow and sharp, her eyes rimmed red.

“Have you no shame? You dare to insult _ me_, when I have upheld the honour you could not?” 

Draco snickered. “You look even more pathetic when you try to talk like them. Honour my arse, Pansy, you stupid cow.” 

Pansy bared her teeth and stepped forward with a snarl, raising her wand. 

Voldemort placed a white hand on her shoulder, holding her back. 

“All in good time, Parkinson, all in good time. You know of Mr Malfoy’s gifts. You do not want to provoke him too soon.”

“Yes, my lord.” Said Pansy, with a simpering little bow. She aimed another scowl at Draco. “But I can hardly believe it. Looking at him now, he just looks so… so… _ puny. _”

Draco rolled his eyes. 

The Dark Lord placed his other hand on her other shoulder, turning her to face him. She gazed up at him, as if in _ love_. It was hideous, Draco thought, and utterly disturbing. 

“My gift to you, for your incredible display of loyalty, is this, Parkinson.” Draco strained to listen, but he bent down to whisper something in her ear. Her eyes lit up like lanterns, and she slowly turned her deranged stare on Draco, licking her lips with anticipation. She began to nod feverishly.

“Yes. Yes. I know exactly where. Hartest, my lord. I choose Hartest.” 

What, were they planning their fucking honeymoon? In spite of himself, Draco’s heart began to beat wildly; he despised the look Pansy was giving him. No longer one of hatred or disgust, but… _ exhilaration_. That couldn’t be good.

Voldemort turned to his other followers. “You heard the girl. Prepare the necessary arrangements for travel. As for prisoners… take Lovegood, as well. I wish for her to witness this.”

Draco jerked against his chains, stretching as far as he could go in an instinctual effort to get out. They were as relentless as ever, biting into his already bleeding wrists and ankles. The pendant bounced against his throat, a heavy weight reminding him of the Curse beating ferociously in his chest. For once, Draco felt like their goal was one and the same: escape. 

Draco found a shred of relief upon hearing that Bellatrix, Yaxley and Greyback would be staying behind, the latter to be deployed with a group of snatchers. It was to be a crusade of sorts, the Dark Lord told him with relish as he enchanted a mother-of-pearl goblet, taken directly from a glass cabinet containing priceless Malfoy heirlooms, to become their Portkey. Hartest, a small village in the South, was to be their last destination upon Pansy’s request. Why this place in particular was so special remained a mystery to Draco. Until then, they were to make various stops along the country in an effort to radicalize more of the Wizarding world to their cause (which directly translated as terrorising towns and villages and weeding out as many Muggleborns in hiding as possible).

They spent the first couple of days in terrified silence. Draco, Greg and Luna, constantly guarded by Pansy and four other Death Eaters, did not dare to exchange a word between them. Even when the Dark Lord ventured out on his own to wreak havoc on whatever unfortunate community they stumbled upon next, Nagini herself stayed behind, becoming his eyes. They stayed in woods and fields, constantly on the move and denied the luxury of any kind of bed to sleep on, but Draco did not hear the others complain once. Even Pansy, whose old life had revolved around comfort and seeking it out at any cost, grit her teeth through the cold nights, her wand almost always trained on Draco or Luna as she stood guard. 

Nagini spoke to Draco on the third night. The Death Eaters, Greg and Luna were taking shelter inside an old barn outside of Harrogate. Voldemort had taken two people with him into the old town, and they still had not returned. Draco remained chained outside the run-down structure, shivering against the cold as Pansy slept, slumped against one of its stone walls. He clutched the jade pendant in his fist, trying not to think about what might be happening to his mother, silently promising himself and her that she _ would _be free, even if he had to die for it. 

_ “I am sssssurprised you have not tried to esssscape…” _the snake began, coming close into Draco’s space.

“What would be the point?” Draco spat. “Even if I got away, he’d only hurt someone else.” 

_ “Your mother.” _Said Nagini.

“You certainly enjoy stating the obvious.” 

Nagini hissed without words. 

_ “You will lose your insssolence sssssoon.” _

Draco turned to her, even though she scared him shitless. Her head bobbed, suspended by pounds upon pounds of muscle, so that her beady black eyes became level with his, her tongue flicking out to taste his fear. 

“I’m surprised your master hasn’t tried to change me again already. For all his talk of achieving greatness and using me, he hasn’t done much except drag me around, has he?” 

Nagini made a sound that resembled a scoff. _ “You truly believe my master would wassste his precious energy transssforming you? You think he wantsssss to warp your gift into an expendable tool? Sssstupid boy…” _

She began to slide away from him, maintaining a low, disapproving hiss. “Waste his energy?” Draco echoed with a frown. 

Nagini slithered on without a backwards glance, and he was sure her silence was a confirmation of something important; something he’d overlooked. 

Draco contemplated this thought all night, intent on figuring out whether he was _ right _ \- whether the horrid spell Voldemort had used to transform Draco was truly a drain on his energy. The idea seemed impossible. The Dark Lord did not sleep. He was never seen eating, either. When he was in their company, more often than not he faced outwards, his flat, snake-like face upturned towards the sky in utter stillness. He lived on magical energy. From this, Draco had deduced that he was just as insane as he’d suspected. There was barely anything about him that could be perceived as _ human_, and his freakish amounts of power only served to prove it. But Nagini’s scathing comment stuck in Draco’s mind. Perhaps Voldemort _ had _performed magic that was even too strong for him. Perhaps, though he barely dared to hope, the spell he had used truly had taken a toll on him, which was why he’d left Draco alone for now. He was saving it for an important moment. He was saving it for Hartest. 

His mind reeled, a hypothesis beginning to form. He began to feel an itching need to test his theory, the same kind that had nagged at him whilst he’d spent all those godless months fixing the Cabinet. He was nothing if not thorough, and Nagini’s careless words had unlocked a stray and silent hope in Draco. 

It was one thing to test a theory on a magical object, however, and an entirely different one to provoke the most dangerous living wizard of his time. 

_ Fuck it, what have I got to lose_? Came the enterprising thought which had been growing in prominence ever since he’d incinerated Rowle and watched everyone cower before him. 

In the dark, Draco grinned, and waited for sunrise. 

“You know,” He began loudly the next afternoon, in earshot of absolutely everyone, “I’m actually getting rather bored. I thought this was supposed to be some kind of _ mission_, you know? Something important. Frankly, I’ve had lessons with Professor Binns that turned out to be more interesting."

Pansy was on her feet immediately, tossing a terrified grey-faced glance over at Voldemort’s figure, who sat in a meditative state some feet away amongst the trees.

“Be quiet!” She hissed, marching over to Draco and jabbing the tip of her wand against his throat. 

The other Death Eaters began to stir, all of the blood draining from their faces as they sensed trouble. 

“I think we should all play a little game or something, don’t you?” Draco called up to her, making sure to project his voice. “Start a campfire? Sing some songs? No?” 

Pansy’s breaths came in rasps, her red-rimmed eyes wide. 

“Shut the _ fuck up_, Malfoy.” She snapped, leaning close to his face. Her breath stank something rotten, all of her did. Rot emanated from her, as if she was decaying from the inside.

“Or what?” He challenged, making no attempt to hide his grimace at the stench of her. 

She licked her lips, eyes darting back and forth in her skull. “I’ll…”

Chains rattling, Draco folded his arms across his bare chest, kicking his legs out and feeling rather smug. 

“I’m waiting, Pansy.” 

She dug her wand against his Adam’s apple. It hurt, but he wasn’t about to show it. He rolled his eyes. 

“Please. Don’t insult the rest of us by attempting an Unforgivable. If they’re anything like your Charms abilities I doubt you could do so much as torture a fly.” 

“Draco… please, don’t…” The small voice came not from Pansy, but Luna. She was in rough shape, her arm strapped into a makeshift sling, a nasty bruise purpling the right side of her face. Her wide, grey eyes implored Draco from where she sat huddled a few metres away. Greg stood to one side of her, the same expression of dead-bolt fear distorting his features.

Draco struggled. As much as he wanted to provoke Voldemort into testing his theory, he didn’t want anyone _ else _ to get hurt. He tried to tell them both with his eyes, _ I have a plan _, but they gazed back fearfully, cast under the shadow of Voldemort’s outward-facing silhouette as everyone else was. 

“What about your _ girlfriend_?” Pansy goaded, nodding at Luna, a cruel smirk pouting her lips. “I could do something to _ her _.” 

With great effort, Draco rearranged his features into one of cool indifference. “Do whatever you want. I don’t give a fuck.” He resisted the urge to look at Luna. She had to know what he was doing, and Pansy was certainly stupid enough to fall for it. As he hoped, she faltered. “I’m just bored, and being forced to look at _ your _ugly face is doing absolutely nothing for me.” 

As he’d hoped, this was a distraction enough from Luna, and Pansy rounded on him once more, virtually spitting with rage. 

Whether she meant to or not, she cast a non-verbal slicing charm, tearing a long cut alongside Draco’s jaw. He grit his teeth, but made no sound or any attempt to touch it, letting the warm gush of blood drip freely onto his shoulder and chest. The sensation cleared his head, the rawness of such visceral, sudden pain sobering him from the numb listlessness that had been dragging him down like a lead weight. 

“You fucking”-

“SILENCE.”

_ Finally. _

Pansy stopped as if she’d been slapped, standing straight to attention as Voldemort finally stood, facing them all with stone-cold disapproval. 

He rose like steam from a hot lake, drifting towards them as if on air. The sound Nagini made alongside him, that constant, menacing hiss, did everything to add to the effect. 

“I’m sorry, my lord-” Pansy began on a gasp, but he held up his hand, quieting her. 

_ “Children,” _Voldemort spat, glancing around the company with disgust, “must I be accompanied by incompetency wherever I tread?” 

Draco swallowed back his erratic heartbeat. “Must you drag me through piles of mud and horse shit with no end in sight? Godric, this is boring.” 

Voldemort flinched. Draco had a feeling it may have had something to do with his blasphemous mention of the Gryffindor founder, but he didn’t have time to ponder on it, because the Dark Lord glided into his space in an instant, clutching his face between sharp, black fingernails. 

“Do not _ test me, _Malfoy”-

“Why not?” Draco challenged, the oxygen in his lungs fanning the flame of his resolve in the face of what could only be pure evil. “You’ve not done fucking anything to me. You _ can’t, _can you? It’s not easy using all that magic to transform me, is it?” 

Voldemort’s bone-white face contorted into a lipless snarl, and Draco found himself laughing in earnest, the rush of dopamine from being proven _ right _enough to make him lightheaded. 

“I knew it!” He continued, triumphant. Gasps and shuffles around him signalled of the others’ alarm, but he didn’t care. As long as no one else got hurt. “So much for being all powerful, when you can’t even so much as”-

White-hot pain lanced through Draco’s body, snatching the air from his words and seizing his muscles, causing him to yank painfully against the unyielding chains. 

A Cruciatus - or some bastardized version of it - warped by Voldemort’s evil magic to become something _ worse_. Of all the Cruciatus curses Draco had been on the receiving end of recently, Voldemort’s remained the most terrible of all, momentarily robbing him of sane thought until all he was was pain. 

When he was able to open his eyes again, he found he’d curled in on himself in the soil, the shackles on his wrists preventing him from wrapping his arms around his body in a pale imitation of self-comfort. Blood, fresh and hot, dripped freely from deep chaos on his wrists and the cut on his face. 

He braced himself for another hit, loath to even tilt his chin upward to face his attacker. He hung, half-suspended by his wrists in the dirt, the silence becoming deafening as it stretched on and on. What was he _ waiting _for? 

“My lord, I”- Pansy’s shaking gasp was cut off so abruptly that Draco looked upward before he could stop himself. 

Voldemort was facing away from him, shoulders stiff with tension as Nagini rose to hiss in his ear. 

_ “Potter.” _

Draco thought he’d finally lost it when he heard that name unfurl from Voldemort’s mouth in a curdling spit of fury. 

For a moment that was both terrible and wonderful, he thought Harry was actually _ here_, against all odds, to save him. But it only took a sear of pain on his forearm for him to realize otherwise. 

The other Death Eaters all stood with their sleeves unrolled to reveal their own marks, each glowing an angry red. 

Someone was calling them. 

They were left without instruction, without comprehension, as the Dark Lord vanished, taking Nagini with him. 

Draco blinked. If he’d apparated, he’d done so utterly silently. Pansy let out a shuddering gasp, and his scathing hiss hung in the air like a threat in his wake… _ “Potter.” _

Incredibly, it was Luna who moved first. 

“Draco? Are you alright?” She called in a high, clear voice. 

Draco hardly registered her in his shock. It wasn’t until the moment Pansy strode towards the other girl, wand aloft, that he came to.

_ “Don’t _talk to him, you blood-traitor scum.” She ordered, voice breaking on the last word as the unmistakable expression of terror on her face morphed into something cruel. 

Luna didn’t even flinch, her eyes trained on Draco as he slowly sat up, wincing from the pain, to face her. 

“I’m - yeah. Fine.” He choked out. His throat hurt. Had he screamed? The thought didn’t sit well, his age-old pride hating the idea of these people watching him degraded to such a state, but it was hardly important. “You?” He asked, feeling utterly outside of himself as she nodded, even giving him a small smile. Fuckinghell. How was she so calm? 

“Are you deaf as well as insane?” Pansy barked, brandishing her wand wildly. 

Greg stood, speaking for the first time in days. “Don’t be rash, Parkinson.” He said in a low voice. “There’s no need for this.” 

“Quiet, you pathetic _ idiot_. You’ve done nothing but lug yourself around like a dead weight this entire time.” Her chest heaved and her eyes were wide, etched with fear and the beginnings of the madness that came with it. “And _ you tw _.” She rounded on the other Death Eaters who sat, watching silently. “Don’t just - _ sit _there. Help me keep them in check!” 

“But the Dark Lord”- one of them began to stammer. 

“The Dark Lord would want us to uphold standards! The prisoners cannot be allowed to step out of line, d’you hear me?” Pansy shrieked. 

The other twitched impatiently. “The signal… it came from the Manor. I reckon they caught Potter.” 

Draco’s breath caught. The pain all over his body dwindled, focused into a single point of concentration. Harry? At the Manor? It was impossible, surely… he couldn’t have got himself caught _ now_. Not after all this time. He was supposed to be smarter than that. _ Fuck_. 

“He’s okay. Harry’s alright.” Luna said, addressing Draco again as if reading his mind. 

Pansy made a noise of indignation, but they ignored her. 

“What?” Said Draco, completely thrown by the expression of serenity on the bruised girl’s face. “How can you possibly know that?” 

Luna bowed her head a little, letting her long, silver hair fall over her face in a tangled curtain. 

“It was my mother’s gift. I inherited it.”

“Oh…” Draco breathed, remembering Voldemort’s words that night, “You’re a sight-seer, aren’t you?” 

“Hardly... it's an underdeveloped power, but... yes.” Luna replied. 

“A _ what_?” Pansy barked. “Don’t give me that Quibbler nonsense”-

“Don’t be thick, Pansy.” Draco drawled, the memory of a distant third-year Divination class only now coming back to him. “We learnt about this. We were even in the same class, if you’d care to remember.” 

“Fuck off, I know!” She bit back, pacing back and forth. “You’re not supposed to talk to each other. Y-you need to shut up. Right now. He’ll be coming back”-

“That’ll be it for the night now, Parkinson.” One of the Death Eaters drawled, pulling flask from inside his cloak and drinking deeply from it. The Death Eaters who didn’t succumb to fear and madness ended up like these two - hollow vessels of people, drunk on whatever liquor they could get their hands on, numbing the fear and the memories of the atrocities they’d committed. They stuck to the shadows and the lower ranks where they would hardly be noticed. These two must have done something to have been dragged along on one of Voldemort’s personal missions. Either that or they’d just been unlucky. 

“What are you talking about?” She demanded. 

The quieter one sighed, whilst the one with the flask scoffed. 

“You’re new, so you won’t know, but this is what happens. The Dark Lord won’t catch him this time, sweetheart, mark my words. And you can bet he’ll take his time making sure the people who let him down will pay. He won’t be back ‘til morning, but when he does he’ll be in a flying rage. Best prepare yourself, love.”

Pansy glared between the two, lost. “N-no. We’re on a mission here. He’ll be back.”

“It’s just an excursion to rile up the Mudbloods.” The quieter one shrugged.

“Then why bring _ him _along?” Pansy pointed at Draco. 

The Death Eater shrugged. “To put on a show at the last stop? Merlin knows. That one's been nothing but trouble...”

Discouraged by her comrade’s lack of enthusiasm, Pansy’s shoulders dropped. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so piteous. She was well and truly deluded by now, drawn into the grandiose misconception that she was _ important_. Draco remembered all too well how that had felt, backed by the impenetrable wall of fear that he might fail. 

“Don’t fret, Pansy. If this all goes tits up and you end up making a fool of yourself, at least you know how bad it gets.” He said bitterly, gesturing to himself. 

The Death Eater with the flask actually tittered a small laugh at that. He was only human, after all. It wasn’t as if all of them were _evil_ pieces of shit like Bellatrix and Greyback. Some of them were just... pieces of shit. No more and no less. 

Pansy threw him a look that could cut through stone, but there was nothing she could say.

*  
  


Harry stared down at his shaking hands, stained with blood. So much blood… and none of it was his. The chaos of the last few hours clamoured in his ears, so many voices, all yelling and shouting and screaming until… this. 

The surroundings were familiar to him somehow, the plush, well-decorated living room drawing on a memory from not long ago, but all he could concentrate on were the dying breaths of the small elf lying before him, a silver blade sticking out of his side, dark blood seeping into the expensive blue carpet. 

“No... “ Was all Harry could say, “Please, no… don’t die.” 

Harry stayed in that position for an immeasurable length of time, knelt on the living room floor of the house he recognized, but for the life of him could not remember why. Nor could he care to. Dobby had _ died _ for them. Hermione was unconscious, carried by Ron and Dean and - a woman - a woman whose voice he _ knew _but could not place - to a room upstairs. 

Harry remained numb as Ollivander was helped out of the room, followed by the silent, grim-faced Griphook, and then it was just Harry for a time - left alone with his dead friend and the ticking of a large, grandfather clock to accompany the chaos in his head. 

“Blimey… it _ is _you.” 

With incredible effort, Harry tore his eyes away from Dobby’s limp, peaceful body, and to the figures who stood in the doorway. A boy and a girl, both dark-haired, wide-eyed and… 

Slytherin. 

Theodore Nott braced himself on the doorframe, jaw slack as he gaped at Harry. Astoria Greengrass shoved past him, paying no mind to the tiny body by her feet as she grabbed Harry by the shoulders and shook him violently. 

“Where’s Luna?” She demanded, her eyes pooling with unshed tears. Deep lines of stress and worry lined her forehead and the downturned corners of her mouth. She hadn’t escaped from this war, either. Her days were marred by it. But she may as well have been speaking another language for all Harry understood her. 

All he could do was gaze back, dead-eyed, seeing beyond her face as he was reminded yet again of the moment he’d gone tearing through the manor, searching for a shock of blond hair and instead finding Narcissa Malfoy.

She’d had no time to speak, no time to fully explain the absence of her son, but all it had taken was a single shake of her head, a single tear falling down her exquisite, pale face, before Harry was seized and dragged to the long drawing room, slumped in hopelessness. 

Draco was lost. Gone. Beyond his reach. 

“Potter, fucking _ talk _to me!” Astoria raged, her fingernails clawing into his shoulders. 

He didn’t have the strength to fight her off. All he could do was hang his head, grief and despair washing over him in despondent waves. 

“I don’t know.”

Astoria was shaking her head. Some of her braids had come loose, forming a frenzied halo around her face. 

“No. No fucking way. I haven’t been waiting for months for this - for _ you _ , the fucking _ Chosen One _, to come back and tell me that I… that she”-

“Astoria, that’s enough.” 

A voice sharper than glass cut through Astoria’s anguished rant. And when Harry looked up, it finally clicked. 

The face he was met with was one that set off a fight or flight within him instantly, just as it had done all those months ago. 

Andromeda Tonks. 

She looked so similar to her sister, but there was a softness about her that Bellatrix had either long ago lost or had never had. 

This was the house he’d woken up in back in August, right after the side-car had crashed into their back-garden… right after he’d lost Hedwig. 

It was so much harder to let his eyes fall on Dobby a second time, the reality of the loss slamming into him with a force so hard it hurt. 

Andromeda sighed. “Harry… must you always fall on my doorstep covered in blood?” 

The corners of her eyes crinkled with warmth. Sympathy, Harry thought fleetingly. A sympathy he didn’t deserve. 

“Would someone mind telling me what in Godric’s gonads is going on?” Theo blurted from where he still stood in the doorway, shoving back the mop of floppy hair as if to see the situation better. “One minute I’m having a lovely nap and the next there’s Potter and a dead elf in the living room.” 

“Quiet, Theodore.” Andromeda ordered. “Get some Murtlap essence from the kitchen for Miss Granger, please.”

Theo rolled his eyes and groaned. “Fine. Bloody hell, what a ballache…” 

“Astoria, you should make yourself useful as well.”

It fell on deaf ears. Astoria’s hands fell from Harry’s shoulders, wrapping around herself as she began to sob quietly on her knees. 

It made no sense to Harry. Why was she so bothered about Luna? He supposed they must have been friends. If he cast his mind back he remembered vaguely seeing them together once or twice, but… 

Well, it didn’t matter.

He’d lost his chance to find Draco. He’d come too late. There was no telling where he could be or what condition he was in. 

Andromeda was speaking to him, her mouth moving as if in slow motion, but he could not hear her. All he saw was Narcissa’s face, her expression of heart wrenching grief and the unmistakable shake of her head haunting him. 

*

A lump formed in Draco’s throat, unwilling to budge, but by nightfall he found himself gazing up at the stars for the first time in weeks, Voldemort’s oppressive presence no longer keeping his head bowed down. It was bitterly cold, his breath misting out in opaque white puffs, but if anything, the goosebumps on his skin reminded him he was _ alive _. 

The other two Death Eaters had finished the flask of liquor between them and lay unconscious beneath a tree, shrouded in warming charms so potent they formed a mirage. 

Pansy sat, head between her knees, a little distance away. 

Draco clicked his tongue and shuffled in the leaves, chains clinking, but she didn’t react. She must have been asleep. 

He glanced over at Luna who, like him, was gazing up at the stars. Greg was awake, too, fiddling with his shoelaces, but none of them had dared yet exchange a word. 

“Lovegood,” Draco tried, keeping his voice soft. Greg stilled, keeping a lookout on Pansy. 

Luna looked at him. It was still there; that odd, unexplainable serenity that he’d begun to envy. 

“Yes?” 

“How does it work? How can you… you know… _ see _?” 

She bit her lip. With a cautionary glance over her shoulder, she rose on shaky legs and padded across the fallen leaves to sit by him. 

“She’ll hex you.” Draco warned, nodding in Pansy’s direction. 

“I don’t know that she would,” Luna replied, gently reaching out and taking Draco’s arm between her soft hands without a beat of hesitation. He gasped at the warmth of her skin, the realization that this was the first real human contact he’d had since… 

Fuck. 

_Since_ _that night at the lake with Harry. _

Being manhandled and mauled by Death Eaters and Voldemort's cold lizard hands didn’t count. In Draco’s eyes, they barely counted as human.

“She’s scared of me.” Luna continued, oblivious to Draco’s shock. “She’s scared of all of us.” 

Draco held back a scoff, because she was probably right. Pansy oozed with fear, and maybe if he hadn’t been tortured by the very people she’d come to worship, he’d have felt sorry for her. After all, he’d almost been just like her once. 

Luna examined the torn skin around Draco’s wrists with a tiny frown. 

“I wish I had my wand.” She muttered.

“Tell me about it.”

They both startled at a rustling coming their way, but it was only Greg. He knelt on Draco’s other side, avoiding both of their eyes but casting a strong warming charm around them all the same. 

Draco stared at him. “Gregory”-

“Don’t tell me what to do, Draco. I can’t stand this.” He shot back before Draco could say a word, his mouth a hard line. Without a word, he raised his wand and uttered a simple healing spell. It wasn’t powerful enough to knit Draco’s skin together completely, but he could swear the flesh around his wounds became less angry, the swelling depleting into cuts that looked days old instead of hours. The pain was definitely lessened, but the act itself tugged on something raw and untempered within Draco’s chest. 

He hung his head. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. You could get in trouble.” 

“How much worse can it get?” Greg countered. He raised his wand to Luna's face, muttering the words. The dark bruise on her face faded to a pale green, and she blinked in surprise. “I know I don’t stand a chance in a fight," said Greg, "and seeing as it’ll come to that anyway…” He puffed up his cheeks with air, blowing out hard. “I may as well do what I can. Which… admittedly isn’t much. I’m sorry.” 

_ It’s more than you know _, Draco nearly said, but the words died in his mouth, the despair of their situation setting in. 

“My mother was a powerful seer.” Luna began, answering the question Draco had forgotten he’d asked. “She was actually accepted into a seer school abroad, but her true passion was in Potions. She wanted to be a healer, I think.” Luna eyed the healing cuts on Draco’s arms as she spoke. 

“I didn’t know I could do this until last year. The Department of Mysteries has a room full of prophecies. Did you know that?” 

Draco _ did _know that - his father had told him of it once before, but had done little to elaborate.

“It was then that I first felt it - this… _ awakening _, I suppose. Like the voices of a thousand souls reaching out to me and tearing open a hole in my mind. It was terrifying at first. But once I learned to recognize the hole as a doorway instead of a wound, I found I could almost control it. My power isn’t as strong as my mother’s was though, and I don’t think I can see into the future. It’s more like I have ties with the people I love, I can see if they’re alive. If they’re safe. But they can’t see me.” 

Greg and Draco stared at her, transfixed. Draco marvelled at how openly she used the word _ love _ . She _ loved _ Harry. It shouldn’t have shocked him. But he’d never once seen a friend like that… with _ love _. 

“And you saw Ha- Potter?” 

She gave him a knowing look. “Yes. He’s safe now. He’s in turmoil, but he’s safe.” 

“So the Dark Lord_ didn’t _get him.” Said Greg, his expression bypassing a whirlwind of emotion, and Draco was sure he was trying to decide whether that fact was good or not. 

The warm flood of relief that tingled along Draco’s spine, however, was more effective than the warming charm had been, and his breath left him in shaking swirls of mist. 

Luna watched him carefully. “I think you knew it too.” 

“I’m not a sight-seer.”

“I don’t think you need to be when you care about someone that much.” Luna whispered, “Sometimes you can just feel it.” 

Draco let the meaning of that sink deep into his chest. It would be easy to deny it, he knew. One scoff and an insult _ (“Oh, shut up, Loony”) _ and he’d be able to pretend he didn’t know exactly what she meant, but he’d hesitated for far too long; held onto the surety in her gaze with far too much desperation to ever convince her that he didn’t care what had happened to Harry. 

And a part of him believed her. He was sure he’d know if Harry was dead. He’d be able feel it - the cord in his chest would snap, and everything would be lost. 

If Greg was confused, he didn’t show it. He geared his line of sight towards the canvas of the night-sky, the constellations casting a luminescent glow over the bleak world. 

“We’re nearly there.” Luna said, her translucent eyes glazing over. 

“Where?”

“Hartest.” 

Draco didn’t understand. They hadn’t _ moved _ . They were in the South, he was sure, but there was supposed to be a few days left of this so-called excursion left. A few days left for him to plan some kind of rebellion or escape or _ something _ \- but one look at her vacant expression and he knew she wasn’t just talking to him. She was _ seeing _. 

At the very moment he realized this, a crack filled the air, reverberating around the trees and waking Pansy and the two drunken Death Eaters into immediate action. 

Voldemort didn’t arrive alone. He was flanked by his favourites: Bellatrix, Greyback and Yaxley. A trio Draco had come to both dread and despise. What drew his attention the most, however, was the flecks of blood freely decorating Voldemort’s sheet-white skin. It was everywhere - shining on his robes, nestled in dark crescents under his long fingernails… there were even splatters surrounding his lipless mouth, which bore implications Draco could not bear to think about. 

His expression was beyond murderous. Intent throbbed from him in malicious waves of threat, his magic heaving out of him in palpable, dark ripples. Bellatrix seemed even more crazed than usual, her chest heaving with exertion and hysteria, dark eyes landing on everything and everyone around her before flitting to her master, like a rabid dog still tied to its owner. 

Greyback and Yaxley were still, their robes covered in the same dark, glistening sheen that spoke of bloodshed. 

Draco held his breath, and Greg and Luna became statues of fear beside him. 

“My lord”- Pansy began, clumsily kneeling at his feet. 

Voldemort ignored her, and his scarlet eyes fell on Draco’s hunched form. 

Draco’s earlier confidence had all but abandoned him, and his mind scattered under that glare. 

The Dark Lord stalked towards him, wand aloft, a hiss on his tongue. 

“From this day onward, you are _ mine _ to control. You will kill on my command and you will be my weapon. You will destroy every last man, woman and child who comes between Potter and myself, _ do you understand me, blood-traitor?” _

Perhaps if Voldemort had not uttered the phrase Draco had heard from his own father’s lips so often, he would have frozen into silence - but it stung, and the pain of it sobered him.

“No.” 

The collective gasp that ensued fell in time with Draco’s own breath of resistance. He braced himself, the chains clinking in response to his tensing muscles, the Curse becoming alive in his chest. He did not fight it, and allowed the first shiver of scales to flicker into view across his torso for all to see. 

Nagini’s large, arrow-shaped head rose into his eyeline, her beady black eyes finding his. She said nothing. She did not need to. 

Luna’s hand was still loosely holding his wrist. She gripped it tighter as Voldemort descended on them, an inhuman snarl parting from his throat. 

_ “NO?!” _ He heard Bellatrix shriek. “You _ insolent, brat! _ You are lucky the Dark Lord has spared your life. Had you been my son, I would have torn you to shreds _ long ago _, I am ashamed to call you my blood, I would have”-

"I tortured your mother." Said Voldemort, cutting off Bellatrix's stream of abuse. 

It was said in such a simple, callous way. Toneless. Factual. Draco's heart pitted to his stomach. He searched the other Death Eater's faces, looking for signs it was a lie, but they equalled him with grim satisfaction. 

"No... you didn't." Draco heard his own denial tumble pathetically from his mouth, and Voldemort laughed. 

He kneeled to Draco's height. "I learned something very interesting, Draco. Something very interesting indeed. It was hard to make-out through her _incessant _screams, but..." He reached out, fingers still wet with foreign blood, and tugged at the chain around Draco's neck, thumbing the enchanted jade pendant. 

Draco's breath came in short, panicked bursts. No, no, no... not that. _Not that. _

"She did not want to speak, don't get me wrong. I think poor Narcissa would have died if I'd let her, rather than spill this truth. But spill it she did. No one is completely immune to the effects of Veritaserum, are they?" 

The awful memories that flooded Draco's mind's-eye at the mention of the blasted Potion were nothing compared to the terror that beat through his veins as the Dark Lord yanked harder on the chain, cutting into Draco's skin. 

_"Don't."_ Draco begged on a breath, and as he did, the chain broke.

Voldemort rose, dangling the pendant like a pendulum in front of Draco's eyes. 

"Is it true, Draco, that if this pendant is destroyed, you will lose all lucidity in your Dragon's form?" He was taunting him. He already knew the answer. Draco could not even bluff his way out of this one. Voldemort was just drawing it out... like a cat playing with a tortured shrew before finally putting it out of its misery. 

Voldemort hummed. "She is a talented witch, I will admit." He brought the pendant up to his own face. "I detected no such spell... but she did not lie. She _could _not. Shall we see what you can really do, Draco?"

Draco did not mean to sob. Showing weakness at a moment like this was unthinkable - but he couldn't help it. Despair engulfed him, and he became lax, the chains the only force holding him upright. 

"I'll never do as you say." He ground out in a last plea of resistance to the world. "Never."

Voldemort barked a laugh. "It matters not. You are mine now."

He didn't even have to raise his wand. 

It was as if the pendant shattered by means of his will alone, and tiny jade pieces rained down in front of Draco's eyes and onto the ground, embellishing the earth with their destruction. 

It was over.

His despair was overwhelmed by the spell which seeped into Draco from the Dark Lord’s wand, its potency almost doubled since the last time. He almost wished for a _ Cruciatus _as opposed to this oppressive transformation spell which sought to turn him against his will. 

There was nothing he could do to fight it as his scales were ripped sharply into the open. His last human words were an instruction to Greg and Luna: 

_ “Get away from me.” _

He hoped they heard him, for the next moment his eyes were forced shut as an ocean of black dragged him under, and all he could do was experience the sensation of his body morphing against his will, the soil churning underneath his feet, upturned by the claws which grew and grew. 

Draco fought with all his remaining will to remain calm - to remain _ sane _ \- to dispel the sensation of drowning that crushed his expanding ribcage. He focused on his fire - on the source of kindling flame which sparked deep in his chest, knowing that soon it would be his only weapon, and one he would have no control over.

Distantly, he heard the Dark Lord scream another spell - another perhaps even more dreaded than the last:

_ "Imperio!" _

*

The windows and curtains remained shut. No natural light escaped the blinds, and Harry could not tell whether it was still night or if dawn had broken. It didn’t matter. He sat at the round, mahogany kitchen table where he’d been carefully placed hours ago, staring into nothing.

“You’re in shock.” Andromeda had said, sliding a bowl of warm tonic over to him. The steam that rose from it had the flavour of spiced cinnamon. For appearances sake, Harry had risen the bowl to his lips with cold, numb fingers, and taken the merest sip. His lips warmed, tingling with heat, but he had no desire to take more. The churning in his stomach hadn’t stopped. Everything felt wrong and out of place. Nothing was real. 

“There’s a bed waiting for you upstairs,” She continued. “Second door on the right, next to Hermione’s. There are clean clothes up there and a shower room opposite. Go up whenever you want.” 

Her hand left his shoulder, and the room became cold and silent. 

All Harry had been able to think about was how he’d failed. It was selfish. He knew that. They’d rescued Ollivander and Dean Thomas. More Death Eaters were dead. Voldemort hadn’t caught them. For all intents and purposes, they’d succeeded - escaping with their lives and more. 

But what had been the point of it, when the person Harry had wanted to find most turned out to be lost? 

His hand clenched tighter around Hermione’s wand. He hadn’t let go of it since arriving. Dried blood covered his skin in a thin, dark layer of crust. He needed a shower. He needed to move. The bowl of tonic in front of him had gone stone cold, and the glass of water by his curled fist remained untouched. 

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the door slide open behind him. It wasn’t until the tall figure who had entered came into his line of sight that he was able to acknowledge it. The extra presence made the room feel too full. There was already so much noise in his own head. 

“Well…” Came a low, familiar voice. “Hello, Potter.” 

Harry’s bones creaked as he angled his face toward the boy standing above him, and the sensation of uncomfortable magic hit him before the recognition did, the dark eyes coaxing an unnatural warmth from Harry. 

_ “Zabini?” _

Blaise Zabini had changed. His hair was longer. Nowhere near unkempt, though - Harry couldn’t imagine the part Veela Slytherin ever allowing his appearance to dwindle from anything less than the refined finesse he’d always seemed to carry about him, even in school robes. But there was a shadow to his features that certainly hadn’t been there before, his careful consideration marred by something rougher. 

He began to pull up a chair at a polite distance from Harry. 

“I suppose it’s a bad time to ask how you are.” It wasn’t mocking, but something about his tone grazed Harry into a reality closer than the one he’d trapped himself in. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He restrung his sentence, briefly closing his eyes, “No, what are you _ all _doing here? You, Nott, Greengrass, I… what’s going on?” 

Blaise gave a thoughtful sigh. “It’s a long story. But to cut it short, we’re taking refuge here. I wouldn’t want to be crude and say we’re in hiding, but… hmm. Let’s just say our allegiances didn’t exactly align where our parents would have liked.”

Harry remembered with a painful stab the conversation he’d had with Theo in the greenhouse - how vehemently he’d sworn his hatred for his own Death Eater father. And again, the moment Blaise had cornered Harry after a lesson.

_ “We’re not all the same, alright?” _

At the time, Harry had been so caught up with trying to catch Draco in the act that he’d hardly thought about the meaning behind that. It had seemed so strange to him at the time, and his uneasiness at Blaise’s odd familiarity had won over any sense he might have had to question him further. 

“So you ran away?” Harry asked. This made Blaise frown, a flicker of offense crossing his elegant features. “I didn’t mean”- Harry began.

Blaise waved a hand. “It's okay, Potter. I… yes. I suppose we did.”

Harry nodded, a bizarre twinge of relief bringing him further back to himself.

“Good.” 

Blaise’s eyes searched him. “Good? I was convinced you were about to tell me we should have stood our ground and fought.”

Harry shook his head bitterly. “You’d only have been captured and forced to become a Death Eater. Let’s be honest. No one should _ have _ to fight. I’m glad you escaped.” 

Blaise stared at him. “Dear lord, Potter.” He gave a small disbelieving laugh. “Dumbledore’s soldier all tuckered out. Who’d have thought?”

Perhaps, if Harry was feeling more himself, he’d have allowed himself to be offended. But in an awful, twisted way, he decided Blaise was right. The old Harry _ would _ have called Blaise and the others cowards for running away instead of fighting. He thought back to the pride he’d felt at commanding his own little army. _ Dumbledore’s Army. _ Who the fuck had he thought he was? If it had really all been about saving people and helping those who were vulnerable, Harry might not have experienced the strain of chagrin he did at the thought of his old actions. But he could not lie to himself and pretend he hadn’t felt a surge of power every time the other students had looked up to him as a leader. It had fueled him, he realized, feeding a hero complex Draco had made him all too aware of in the past year. It was _ Draco, _he knew, who had yanked him out of his fantasy and into a reality far crueler and far more real than the one he’d created for himself and his friends.

Some people didn’t have a choice.

Some people _ shouldn’t _fight. 

It would never be so simple as he’d made it out to be back then. 

Where Blaise’s entrance had been quiet and considerate, Astoria’s and Theo’s was a burst - a march and a sharp slam that shattered the attentive atmosphere. 

“Ah, good.” Theo breezed, hopping onto the kitchen counter and plunging his hand into an open box of cornflakes. “We’re all awake.” 

Astoria stomped to the other side of the table and drew back a chair with a scrape. She glared at Harry. Harry glared back. 

“Man, you’re fucking filthy. You didn’t even shower yet?” 

“Your _ language _is fucking filthy.” Theo rebuked, his mouth stuffed full of cereal. Astoria ignored him and plonked her bare feet up on the table. 

“Blaise give you the rundown yet?” She demanded. Harry couldn’t figure her out. Hardly any time had passed since she’d been a sobbing mess. Now she was all crossed-arms and cutting stares, not a trace of the tears left on her aristocratic face. Even her braids had been evened out into smooth, long black twists, save for one silver one that hung by her face. 

“Sort of.” Harry replied, finding his voice. For some unfathomable reason the only thought entering his head was that the girl sat before him had been (and possibly still was?) Draco’s fiance. It was so _ weird_. He couldn’t picture them together at all. 

Astoria made a show of glancing over each shoulder before raising a brow. 

“Take a picture, Potter, it’ll last longer.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Give him a break. He’s been through hell.” 

Astoria set her jaw. “We’re all going through hell, Blaise. He has information. The more we know and the sooner we know it, the better.” 

“Give him five minutes at _ least_.” Blaise argued. 

“Oh, don’t be pathetic. This idiot survived a killing curse _ and _a trip to the Death Eater’s nest, I’m sure he can handle a little needling. Right, Potter?” 

“Astoria, you’re an actual weapon.” Theo guffawed, watching the argument from his high point on the counter like it was the evening match. 

Harry hadn’t really been listening. He stood up, his legs stiff and aching, and marched over to the window where the curtains were drawn, his hands itching to open them. 

“I need to go back.” He said roughly, his throat as dry as paper.

There was a small silence.

“Excuse me?” Blaise ventured.

“As soon as I’ve got my strength, I’m going back to Malfoy Manor.” Harry clarified, turning to the three astounded Slytherins. 

Theo blinked, dropping a couple of cornflakes from his hands onto the floor. 

“Yeah, nah. He’s lost it. We’re doomed, lads.” 

Andromeda stood in the doorway carrying a bowl covered with a cloth, her eyes widening as she gazed at Harry. 

“Harry… you need rest before you can even think about”-

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tonks. But I have to go back. There’s someone there I need to save.” 

Her mouth opened and closed, thick eyebrows knitting together with confusion. 

“_Who_? We got everyone out of the cellar”-

“Except Luna. Don’t you dare forget Luna.” Astoria gritted out.

-_ ”except _Luna, who was not present. But The Order are already planning”-

-”we don’t have time for planning!” Harry yelled, quieting the room. His hands shook by his sides, Hermione’s wand shooting a small burst of yellow sparks in response to his outburst. “Fuck The Order, they’ll take too long. It’ll be too late by then.” 

Astoria whooped. “Amen, sister. I’m with Potter. Blimey, never thought I’d be saying that.”

Andromeda’s expression became furious. “Both of you, _ stop. _ I know you’re upset and shocked, but you aren’t thinking clearly. We _ all _have people we want to save, but going to Malfoy Manor is out of the question!” 

“I have to agree.” Said Blaise quietly. “It’s way too dangerous. It doesn’t matter how gung ho you are, there’s no way in hell you’ll make it out alive. Especially not in your current state.” 

Harry took a step forward, but Andromeda interrupted him, striding into the room and slamming the bowl down on the counter. Its contents sloshed noisily. 

“Harry Potter, we may not know each other well, but I’ve heard of your nature and I know my sisters.” She began, her voice quiet with rage - a rage not entirely directed at him. “Right now one of your best friends is bleeding upstairs thanks to one of them, and I’m all too aware of where that puts me. Hermione _ screamed _when she saw me, Harry. And don’t think I didn’t see you pale the first time we met.” 

Harry’s breath caught. The anger etched into her face attributed to her likeness of Bellatrix, and it was all he could do not to look away. 

“Think about your friends, Harry. Think about the people in The Order putting their lives on the line so you _ can _continue your mission. Without them you would be dead, so have some fucking respect.” 

The silence that ensued was at once imbued with shame and awe, the latter of which mostly came from Theo. 

“Damn.” He whispered. She directed her gaze on him, and he cowered under it. 

“Wash your hands before eating, Theodore, and for Godric’s sake get _ off _ the counter. Ted is far too lax with you, and I’m not having it in my house.”

He did as he was told and slinked into a corner, clutching the box of cornflakes like a lifeline. 

Andromeda turned back to Harry, the fire in her expression cooling off into something resembling exhaustion. Her shoulders slumped. 

“We’ll know more soon. You just… have to wait. Just a little bit longer. Okay?”

Every instinct in Harry fought to argue, rising like hot bile in his throat and mingling with the shame and dread that riled up his insides. He swallowed it back, and nodded.

Whatever he could have said next was cut short by a sharp _ crack _coming from the living room.

The unmistakable sound of an apparation. 

Every head snapped in that direction. Theo perked up immediately, discarding the cereal box messily on the counter. 

“Ted?” He called.

Andromeda frowned. “He shouldn’t be back this early. We were expecting him tomorrow.” 

A pulse of apprehension rocked Harry forwards - _ had Voldemort found him? _\- but mere seconds passed before Ted Tonks burst into the kitchen, his face white and drawn with fatigue. He pushed his glasses up his nose, eyeing everyone in the room with a nod of acknowledgement. His eyes fell on Harry. 

“Harry. Glad you’re here. Glad you’re safe.” He said shortly, his expression betraying him. 

Andromeda took his arm, “What happened?” 

Ted gave another swift glance around the room, as if deciding whether or not to speak in front of them. 

“There’s been an attack.” He said at length, his features darkening. “There’s been an attack on the muggles, in a small village in Suffolk.” 

Andromeda closed her eyes. “How many?” She asked grimly. 

“Dozens.” Ted said, not looking at any of them. “But it’s not - it’s worse than that. Witnesses spotted Death Eaters nearby, but they weren’t the ones conducting the attack. They didn’t have to. The muggles were killed... burned to death by... a Dragon.”

  
  
  



End file.
